


Salvation: Two years later

by Diane Marling (Lauredessine)



Series: Salvation [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-08-22 17:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16602206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauredessine/pseuds/Diane%20Marling
Summary: Ide married Roland and is living a good life beside him in Syria. But one morning something unexpected arises that threatens to open old wounds again.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaizyDoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaizyDoe/gifts).



She wore a veil now, that covered her raven hair; a veil she only let loose on the marble floor when she wasn't in public, for in public she must appear every bit of the married woman she became after the bishop of Jerusalem – a man recently appointed by the Pope to go and preach in Holy Land – married her to Roland. She wore her dresses long and lamented that she wasn't as free as before to accomplish her daily tasks – not that it was necessity, for now she had servants to tend her dwelling.

After a month of complying to the married woman's etiquette, she decided she had enough and if she kept the veil, she wore her dresses shorter, freer to wander around, to chat with the few Saracen women within the walls of Roland's castle, with Rosamund who recently came with Stephen to settle in Syria. She was strolling down the vineyards when a rider stopped by her side, a rider who bore the face of her husband.

“What are you doing?” he asked. He wore his crusader attire and Ide noticed his troops up the hill, waiting for his return and leadership.

“I could return the question.” she said. “Are you going somewhere? Should I wait for your return tonight?”

Roland rolled his eyes. “The king asked for me in Jerusalem, some rebellion he needs to stifle with steel.” he nodded at her. “You should be home.”

Ide rolled her eyes, mimicking him. “I need to keep myself busy, husband. I need company and I wander here to seek it.” she looked around. “I also am looking for things to brew. What say you? Do you miss my mead? Shall I make wine also?”

Roland smiled and leaned to kiss her forehead. “Whatever you will do, I know it will be good.” he also knew she needed business to keep her mind to wander to those dark tides that almost killed her several times. “I need to go now. I will be gone for a week and will be back within a fortnight.” his voice grew sultry. “I will think of you at night when I am shivering in the desert.” implying his lust for her.

Ide grabbed his coat and drew him to her. “Then come back soon. My body will wait, eager for yours.”

Roland gulped and blushed much to Ide's amusement. “You..” he croaked. “You will be the end of me.”

“I hope not.” she giggled. “Now set off to Jerusalem. I shall await your return with great impatience.” she smiled. “I love you.” ceasing their banter.

“I love you more.” always competitive.

Ide slapped his thigh and he faked a whimper that took way back when he was still a doleful wound on her bed, fighting for survival. It had been two years now. Things had never been so different. While back in France all died under her feet, now each steps she took made the soil flourish.

She nervously worried her teeth on her fingers, afraid harm would befall him. She was happy there, it was true, well perhaps not happy, rather content with moments of joy, but the void that had grown within for such a long time had not disappeared. She still felt guilty, as he set away for war, that she brought him no children to heir his land, that she had kept their first child for herself and for the earth to swallow. She still thought herself a death-bringer and if she often thought about it, she dreaded to form the words for fear the satisfaction she had built here would crumble down like some weak wall.

She kept it for herself, the burden tiring her at best, sometimes so overwhelming she cried tears and nightmared the dead life she brought into the world. One might think she would have gotten used to it but it was so far the case, for each was a blow to her condition.

After Roland left, she roamed his lands: a few acres, enough for him to own a caravansary, a large fortress still in construction, modified to fit the Franks' idea of a defensible stronghold, a herd of camels, a hundred of families, buildings, houses tents and terrain to farm. It was a fine place with much green to atone for the ocher of sand and rock and the blue of the sky. It was a vivid land, warm to excess, hilly, fertile, seldom windy in Winter. After the vineyard hill was a rocky valley in which snaked a trickle, where large square parcels of land were being used to grow fruits and other sustenance, palm trees, olive trees and date palms scattered all across those while rivulets had been dug to bring water to the rich brown soil of there.

Beyond the walls, coating the valley was the beginning of the desert, and beyond the river were mountains, hardly visible in the distance.

A little below lived the Saracens, some in tents, some in hard wall houses. Many came in and out of Roland's domains for reasons having to do with caravans and trade, wandered even to the far east, where no Frank had ever fathomed going or even imagine. Thus, the population was constantly shifting, wandering, moving away, moving of a few meters or even vanishing. They were like sand in the desert, perpetually moving.

Ide sat by the water and looked at them, happy with their families. Some Saracen families dwelt within the walls of the domain, and Ide had talked with them seldom, recognizing in their voices and languages, Samar's songs, Samar's voice, Samar as a whole. This was a land she had known once, in a life far remote. Ide looked at them and the emptiness grew, festered like a poison and shed some tears thinking about that hole her child had left her with.

In another life she might have drowned it, fed it with booze until she passed out but now was a different life. Now she could talk, caress her family's tapestries, revel in work.

She stood up and wiped off her tears, walked up the hill, examined grapes, deeming that she would need a word with a wine maker and learn herself to making it. She smelled the sweet aroma of bread being cooked in the oven, heard the hustle and bustle of the fortress, savored even the sounds and smell of the camels, let the wind raise her veil, the sun burn her skin so desperately pale – that grew red if she stayed outside for more than an hour or two – walked towards her garden, followed by one of their servants with whom she enjoyed talking, learning new languages such as Arabic and Hebrew and taught her the Frankish language, for the woman knew both and only both.

She inquired about where Rosamund was, but the woman being with child yet again, she was home, doing needle-work while her sons ran with sons of knights or Saracens. Ide was jealous, of course. The woman was so fertile and strong!

Ide crossed the patio towards a yard that bore the name of her 'garden' and inspected her hives. She asked for jars to be brought up and tools as well and undertook to gather honey. This task done, she thanked her bees for their work and deeming that she had enough honey to brew mead, divided one in two to give to Rosamund and to her servant's family.

She kept herself busy that day, tending what needed, meeting with retainers and tenants, administrating lands such as Roland taught her, doing what she could to maintain prosperity.

At night, if Roland's soothing presence wasn't there, she still laid content in bed and sang, hoping he would somehow hear it and sleep well – to this I might add that Roland indeed slept as well as he could, for he pretended she slept beside him, desperately recreating her presence in his bed.

Yet still, if her dreams were troubled by past and present demons, she slept as much as she could and woke up suddenly at dawn to vomit in her privy bucket, feeling unwell. The whole morning as the sun rose in the sky, she was nauseous and drank herbal tea to calm her bile, and when it was not enough, she worked her brain to determine what would be the causes of her sudden state. She touched her forehead and noted that no fever arose, smelled her breath, as fresh as ever since she stopped drinking. Nothing.

She recalled what she ate and saw that it was nothing out of the ordinary in terms of taste, of diversity and deduced that it could not have been the cause of her sudden illness. She had not been bitten either by either snakes, scorpions or mosquitoes. If her ill state could not be ascribed to food, fever, bites or anything of the sort that could explain it, then it only meant that...

No.

It couldn't be.

 _She_ couldn't be.

And yet... She couldn't have known the symptoms. Samar never taught her and if there had been a time she had felt them that time was long gone and all of it had sank into oblivion.

She dressed in haste, barely attaching her veil, barely eating, barely drinking, striding towards Rosamund's home, seeking wisdom from a woman more than thrice pregnant, gagging on her way. She barely greeted the tenant, Yusef and his wife, focused on Rosamund's door.

Upon the announcement of her arrival she was met in the living room, a new set of decor for both Frankish women, for in France there was none of those things such as rooms dedicated only for welcoming guests.

Rosamund had asked baklava and other sweets to be prepared and a woman brown of skin and dark of hair served tea, holding her own veil for it not to fall on the floor. Ide found many things in common between France and Syria; women of both realms wore veils for instance, they bantered their friends, played with their children, were as free as the others, but most importantly, the emotions, the rages, sadness, emptiness, worry, grief, love – all of it was the same, no matter the decor. Emotions were all the same, only the coping was different.

“Why have you come?” Rosamund was as graceful as ever, her voice as polite as ever. She was a lady and it showed, from her calm and grace to her clothes, long and rich. “Given this early hour and your agitation, your dress” she gave a knowing look over her dress. “This must be a matter of the utmost importance.”

“What does it feel like, being with child? What are the symptoms? Please, describe them to me.” Ide's eager voice called.

Rosamund drank some tea and her lips parted with a wide smile. “Congratulation! This is fantastic news!” she exclaimed.

“No, no.” Ide said. “It can't be. I have not bled for years and even so, I miscarried all my children. This can't be! I must be sure.” her voice was begging.

Rosamund was agape for a moment but smiled. “Let me assure you. I have seen your glow on my mother and sisters, I have been nauseous for weeks too. Have you recently felt your clothes too tight?”

Suddenly she did and when she looked at her belly that was yesterday flat, she saw the bump of a woman months pregnant. She touched it in disbelief. “I am...”

“With child.” Rosamund finished. “Our children will be the same age it seems.” her joy echoed in her voice. “I wish they will be good friends.”

Ide suddenly caught her breath. At first she was astonished that such thing had been possible, that she had been pregnant for months but that it only showed now, as if her realization accelerated the process. Then she thought of all that could go wrong. She could miscarry again, the child could be deformed, a cripple, it could be so tiny it wouldn't survive, or she would die in childbirth. All catastrophes danced I her mind and she wept, burying her face in her hands.

“It can't happen again.” she howled. “Not now. Not here. Not to him.”

“What?” she asked with concern. “What are you afraid of?”

Ide's eyes were red with tears. “The miscarriage.” she croaked. “I couldn't bear for it to happen again. Never again. It would crush me.” she frantically wiped off her tears. “And even so, what if the child is unwell? What if I die giving birth? What if we both die? What of Roland? I cannot do that to him.” not again.

“You are a healer aren't you? Why do you not surround yourself with healers as competent as you are? Trust me, Ide. You are in excellent shape to bring children to the world. You won't die for sure and as for the miscarriage, I believe you might as well bring this one” she pointed to her belly “into the world for real.”

Ide gulped. “I never learned how to deliver mothers.” she gulped. “I want children.” she confessed. “But I am afraid I might not have it.”

“I will pray that you will. I will pray all the saints if I need to.” her eyes were kind.

Ide nodded and gulped. No saint, no god could protect her. There were none. She did not want this child. If it was to lose it, to risk great stakes for it to die as always her children did, then it was no use. She didn't want the child. She didn't want the pain.

“You will need a midwife.” said Rosamund. “I also think you should be surrounded by women experienced in childbirth. I will see that some Christian women of Jerusalem come hither to shoulder you.”

Ide sighed. “That's it then. I am with child. Again.” she gave Rosamund a hollow smile. “I thank you for your kind offer, but I must decline. There is no need for women to be brought from Jerusalem to our remote fortress. I will see to this business myself, if that is not bothering you.”

Rosamund nodded and smiled. “Not at all.”

“Mama!” cried one of her sons, running to tug on his mother's skirt, storming into the room with all the energy of a five-year-old, begging for attention.

Rosamund took him in her arms. “It seems my children are awake.” the boy ate some fruits on the platter. “And hungry.” she gave an apologetic smile. “I need to feed my hungry bears. Sadly I must shorten our talk.”

“No problem.” Ide said. “I understand.” rather she will.

She took her leave and wandered around, alone under the sun, towards the river, all melancholy wanting no food, nor company. She pictured Rosamund, the perfect Christian married woman, tending her children, weaving, embroidering, dealing with tasks Mary must be achieving at the same moment, a world away in Caen. Ide sat on a rock by the riverbed. She began to weep without even noticing. Even the child in her belly couldn't get rid of her void.

She thought about Mary, of how she missed her, of how happy she would be, how reassuring her presence would be. She glanced back at the fortress where she knew her family's tapestries were kept, the void intensifying. Her sisters alive or there beside her, she would have been comforted, her mother alive, she would have been advised. Her family with her, she would have, perhaps, felt a little less apprehensive of that dreaded pregnancy.

Samar here, she would have grown brave and faced the odds with a little strength. Mahaut there, she would have shared it all and it would have been less burdening.

She couldn't talk to Rosamund about it, she did not know her well enough to confide into her all her wretched secrets. She couldn't speak of it with Roland, for if he knew about one miscarriage, he did not know about the other one, and such thing would wreck him. She couldn't do that to him. She loved him too much to let guilt have its way with him again.

She was hollow as ever; there was no hope, no friends, no family, no one to turn to, nothing to turn to, no memory joyful enough to turn to, no certainty to hold, no god to pray. There was nothing but that supreme everything of nothingness.

She shivered and wished Roland back. She needed him. Only him understood her. Only him could make her feel less lonely, although she was sometimes a bit lonely with him.

She stayed there for a long time, her hand on her belly, desperate for a drink, yet refusing to go that path again, fighting her own demon gazing at nothing in particular until she heard the voices of women nearby, fetching water, their daughters clinging to their feet, laughing and singing songs Ide knew from Samar.

A connection arose suddenly and Ide stood up, thinking that perhaps these women were as competent as Samar to deliver children. Surely they could help her and numb her doubts. Surely speaking with them would make her feel less alone in this Christian world she lived in. She saw them and envied them and their sudden happiness. Ide wanted to smile like that too. She wanted to laugh out loud too; she had so far only learned to grin.

The women were dressed with dark loosy dresses embroidered in such a fashion Ide's eyes were riveted to their beauty. Kohl circled their dark eyes, emphasizing the curves of their eyes, magnifying their lashes, their brown skin turning gold under the sun, their veils kept on their head with circles of silver jewels, the lower half of their faces masked with those same veil of silver. Their hair was hardly distinguishable under their matrimony veil, such as it was the case for Christian women or even some Jew women whom Ide had seen in Jerusalem.

With hesitation, Ide came close to them, and shyly, fearful, maybe that they might cast her away, beat her with sticks and stones, afraid they might glower or call her cursed; afraid of them like she was afraid of every other human-being, she gulped and greeted them in the language Samar had once began to teach her.

“Salam alaykum.” she croaked, wanting nothing but to sink into the ground to never come back and hide her shame that they might find her rude.

The women froze in motion and looked at one another, unused to such bold greetings, to no ceremony, to such a straight-forward woman.

One of them bowed a little and smiled. “Wa alaykum salam, Christian woman.” she said in Samar's language. “You can speak our tongue.” she noted.

Ide gulped and tried to get her brain function entirely in a language that wasn't her own. “I do. I learned from a woman from here. Samar was her name.” a moment of sadness passed, she frowned. “I am not Christian.” she said.

“You wear their clothes and abide by their traditions.” said one. “How are you not Christian?”

“My husband is a Christian. There lies the difference.” Ide said.

Murmurs of assessment roamed the throng of women and a few chatted about it.

“Do you need a hand?” Ide asked.

A young woman, about Ide's age came and gave her a bucket to fill with water. “Help us fetch water, then.”

Ide complied and kept company to the women, cleaning clothes after water was fetched, recalling her days in the green forest of Normandy. She gave a gentle smile hearing them sing and sang along with them, though her voice was nearly inaudible.

This done, the throng of women walked towards what seemed to be the women's tent and Ide walked with them under the wary eyes of men. A few sheep and goat shepherd stopped to look at her and her white veil, so amiss amidst the colors of their women's. In the tent, Ide placed her own bucket next to those of the women and laid the clothes where they told her to.

“Say, stay with us to eat.” said an old woman who seemed to be the matriarch of such a feminine society. “You are so frail you need food. Come, sit there and remove your veil. You are no longer in the world of men but of women and here we are all equals.” as to give weight to her words she removed her veil as well as all the other women and Ide marveled at their dark curly hair so much like hers.

She did likewise and a few women giggled which set Ide's skin on fire.

“Do not fret, Christian woman.” said the elderling. “They are laughing with surprise that your hair must be so dark and hidden under so fair a veil.”

Ide gulped and nodded.

The elderling sat at the best seat and women brought in dates, baklava, fruits, perfumed rice, goat milk and cheese, bread and meat, honey, figs and other sweets. The carpet was covered with dishes and Ide thought she had never seen such a feast. Her stomach growled and she waited for the women to say the graces, but none came and they immediately began to eat.

Each bite was a delicacy. The dishes kept coming in and Ide worried she had not enough stomach to eat it all, even if she needed to eat for two.

“We had not guessed this morning that we should have a guest. I am sorry if that is not enough.” the elderling said.

Ide choked and gave a smile fitting for the kind of warm tenderness of having been offered food. “This is more than enough, thank you.” her smile was wide.

The woman smiled. “That is kind of you to say. Especially if you must eat for two.” she gave a knowing mischievous look at her belly.

Ide choked again and coughed, drawing the women's laugh. “How do you know?”

“I have seen many of my daughters, sisters and granddaughters with child. I know the appetite, the bump of a woman's belly. You are with child, that I am sure of.” She reached for her hand. “What is your name?”

“I am Ide.”

“I am Amal.” said the woman. “I am the oldest here and there is my family: Asma, Naila, Salma and Selima, my daughters, and their daughters, and their daughters.” she gestured around and about a dozen of women greeted her. “You must be the wife of that Christian crusader who took these lands a few years ago.”

“I am.” said Ide, recalling Samar's accusation. “I carry his child. For now.” she added.

“For now?” asked a woman Ide thought to be one of the granddaughters. “What do you mean, 'for now'? Will you stop breeding with him?”

Ide nervously gripped her dress, opening and closing her mouth, hesitant to speak.

“Come, come, Yasmin.” said Amal. “Ide may perhaps not want to talk about it. We must respect our guest's wishes. Don't you think?”

Yasmin nodded and ate again.

“Why have you come to us?” asked another woman.

“Asma...” began Amal.

“No. I want to hear it, mother.” said Asma. “Why has she come hither if not to crush us all like her kind? Don't forget she is a Frank. Franks don't care for nothing but land and I don't see why this one must be so different.”

“She speaks our language and came with no weapons but haunted eyes.” said another woman. “Why are you so wary?”

“I am wary, Zinat, because I need to be for the good of our family! She comes here for what? Strip us of our food, our herds, our tents? What next? Our knowledge? Our bones? Our ancestors?”

Ide smiled and chuckled.

Asma gave her a glare. “I don't see why it is funny.” her voice was cold.

“Forgive me.” Ide said, hiding her fear. “I laugh because I have heard similar a complaint in the mouth of a woman I hold dear to my heart, who taught me her knowledge, her songs and part of her language.”

“What was her name?” asked Yasmin, who seemed curious to excess – Ide liked her.

Ide grew melancholic and mournful. “Samar.” she said.

“That is not a Frankish name.” said Amal. “Did she come from here?”

Ide shrugged as she shoved a baklava in her mouth. “That I know not. She never told me where she was born, but I suppose she came from Syria. She had seen many things, to Jerusalem, to Seville, to Paris, to the greens of Normandy. She traveled a lot and learned a lot. She is a woman who gave me a knowledge she had gathered from across the known world. Though she never taught me the things of birthing babies.”

“Well that is a shame.” said Amal. “I suppose we shall see to it. What is a woman one who cannot fend for her fellow women?”

Ide gave a sharp breath, while accepting a glass of hot tea Yasmin handed her. “I heal, though.”

Amal brushed off the remark. “That is far from enough. Do you have midwives to attend you when you'll deliver this babe of yours?”

“I don't.” she confessed. “Or if I have, they are all Christian women and I am afraid of what they would say about my baby, or about me, or about the state of my womb. I am afraid about what they will see. I fear for their piercing gaze upon my soul. Christians love to judge.”

“Why would they be judgmental?” asked Yasmin.

“Why didn't you bring midwives with you if you were to carry his children?” cut Amal.

Ide chuckled nervously. “I wasn't supposed to have children.”

Amal frowned. “You are married to him. Of course you were supposed to bear his seed.”

Ide wrung her dress and shifted on her seat. “No, I mean- it's complicated.” she stammered.

“Come, come, you can confide in us. What are is the purpose of growing old if we cannot help younger women? There is nothing to be ashamed of, especially when we are taking in a tent where men have no space. I hope you can trust us enough to keep your secrets and guide you with wisdom.”

Ide felt hot tears rushing towards her eyes. It felt as though her family was alive again. This was what she would have wanted; women to offer guidance, not corpses to mourn and sisters to write to. Something about Amal made her think of Samar and she felt hot tears rushing once more, while a soft smile spread on her face. “Thank you.” she mouthed.

Zinat stood up and came to sit beside her, rubbing her back while Yasmin, who was obviously Asma's daughter offered her a hand to hold onto. Ide started under their touch. She wasn't used to that kind of familiarity with people she just met. When she first saw Rosamund they barely exchanged a word and so far she had not touched her even from the tip of her fingers. Ide was wary of people, but strangely the warmth inside the tent made her fears melt. Those women were kinder than any of those she had known since her childhood. Perhaps talking with them wouldn't bring a rain of rocks and boulders of insults. She was awkward taking so much space in their lives and would rather wish to remain invisible but something stirred in her heart and she knew it was friendship blossoming.

She nervously drank. A while ago it would have been ale but she had vowed never to drink booze again. Truly, their mint tea was a blessing. “I haven't bled for years.” she croaked.

Amal frowned. “Is that so?”

“And even if I did, I would miscarry. I miscarried two of my children; my only children.” she reached for her belly. “That is why I am afraid. I do not want to bear him children. I do not want them to suffer. I do not want him to suffer. I do not want to live it again.” now the tears rolled down her cheeks. “I did him dirty once already.”

“Does he know?” Zinat asked gently, removing her hands from her back deeming she needed some privacy at the moment.

Ide shook her head. “If he knew this would hurt him and I do not want that. We suffered enough, I think.” she sighed. “I envision the worst. The child could be disabled, I could die in childbirth, it could die within its first year, I could miscarry, like I did all my babies.”

“It could come out alive and well and live a long life.” said Amal. “You can never know what the future is made of. Tell me, Ide, did you eat well? Did you fast? Did you overwork? Those may be the cause of miscarriages.”

Ide grew red. “There is something.” she uttered. “Something shameful.” she added.

Amal gave a warm smile. “There shall be no judgment from us. To you and Allah, I promise.”

Ide bit her lips. “I drank.” it was more a whisper than something said outright.

“That explains everything, then.” said Amal. “Now, tell me, how old were you when you first carried a child?”

“I was sixteen.” Ide confessed.

Amal nodded.

“Amira's daughter married at fourteen and carried her first child at sixteen and she miscarried. Being pregnant too young does not do you good I think. Of course I have my first at seventeen but it was a matter of luck. Miscarriages are things that happen.” she gave a smile. “There is nothing to be ashamed about.”

“Except perhaps your drinking.” said Asma. “One of my friend once spent too much time feasting and drinking and she miscarried. Excesses are bad for pregnancies as well as monthly blood. You killed your children drinking so much.”

Selima paled. “Asma! Mother swore on Allah that we wouldn't judge!”

Asma shrugged. “She swore, not I.”

Ide felt tears drip from her lips. At the moment she longed to shatter on the ground and let it take her. Of course she knew that it was ale that killed her womb, but hearing that she killed her baby was devastating. Of course she didn't want the child, but to think she was her murderer was something to account for. At the moment she hated herself, wanted to skin herself alive and gagged. She was cursed with death, it was true, but with her own. Even across a sea, there would always be people to accurse her with all the misery of the world.

Amal reached for Ide's hand. “Do not listen to my daughter. She has always been stiff. It is true that ale was your child's death, but I believe that you couldn't help it at the time. Now, you are healed and it shall be better.”

Ide sniffled and nodded. “I needed it, it is true. I needed it to kill myself.”

Zinat and Yasmin gasped and rushed to embrace her, to offer her some more food and tell her reassuring words. Ide gave a grateful giggling at their kind endeavors. She loved the girls already.

“Why would you hate yourself so much as to kill yourself? That is a terrible thing, Ide.” said Amal with warm compassion.

“They said I was a witch and a demon where I came from. They used to beat me, to insult me, to cast me out every single time I set foot in the village. They used to want me dead. They used to glower, to hate, to burn me. They burned my house, my hives, my craft, my cat. They hanged my friend, drove out another and my sister. I suppose I thought they were right. I have seen my family and my betrothed die without my being able to do anything. Men of God wanted someone to blame for this so they blamed me. The townsfolk followed.” she gave a sigh. Talking about it always brought back pain and pangs on her scars. “I wanted to die and so did they.”

Amal smiled. “Then living is the best way to spite them. Live just for the pleasure of their defeat.” she pressed her hand in hers. “You did good. Don't give up.”

“And if you do, well, I guess there's no heir to the crusader.” Asma said with contempt. “That shouldn't be a bad thing.”

“Asma!” Amal seethed. “By Allah I did not give you birth for your tongue to turn snake!”

Ide jumped to her feet, anger slowly brewing. “I want this child! Of course I am afraid! Of course I don't want to have it if it is to watch it die! But do not assume that I do not want to give my husband an heir! I want this child! I want it to live! I want to live myself! I want to pass onto it what Samar taught me! I want other children to learn what I did! I survived and she with me! Do not assume my survival and the birth of my child isn't without consequence for people I used to know and love!” she shed a tear. “I want this child! I want this child!”

Amal smiled. “Good.”

Zinat scoffed. “She wants it to burn our land and murder our men, to raid and kill and steal.” Ide burst in laughter at this and Zinat turned to her, ire burning in her eyes. “I do not see what is funny about that!”

“If Samar was here – if she was alive with me – she would have slapped you the second you spoke!” Ide said. “She would have spoken grief out of your brain. If Samar was here she would be hard, she would be stern, she would harden my mind into having this baby.”

Zinat replied with haughty eyes.

Ide sighed. “I understand your grievance. I do. But I do not come here with war in my mind. I come here to talk, to share and hope I can bend my husband's mind enough for your benefit. I want us to be allies, as it should be.”

“Husbands never listen to their wives.” Asma seethed bitterly.

“Mine do. You'll see.”

Amal asked them to sit back down. “It is good your husband married a willful woman. You came to us hatred-free and shared with us with no shame. It is fortunate he married you.”

Ide flustered. “Yes.” she breathed. “It is.”

“You remain helpless with no midwives to attend to you.” Amal asked one of her granddaughters to go and fetch something. “You should call for some.”

Ide blushed harder, afraid to ask any favor, afraid they might say no, find her arrogant, afraid to step forward and take too much space. Being accepted among women was to her entirely new. “I was wondering if you could be my midwives, and – you could – perhaps – I was thinking – I was thinking that you could teach me the way of delivering babies when the time requires me to use that skill.” she stammered.

“I'll do it!” Yasmin instantly said.

“I'll be happy to do it too.” added Zinat.

“I'll ask around.” said Amal. “I'll send you a few more of my granddaughters. As for children, when pregnancies arises, I shall ask for you and I will teach you. My granddaughters are about your age and I taught them all I know about birthing babies. With them to watch over you in the following months of your pregnancy all will be well.”

The fabric of her dress seemed to tense harder around Ide's belly. Soon she would need another set of dresses. “Thank you.” she said with a gentle smile. “Don't hesitate to come as long as you wish. My house is open and I need company and practice for weaving. A servant of ours taught me some of your language but I could use your songs and poetry. Those I know are too old I am afraid.”

This was followed by a row of laughter. The youngest of the women promised to come to her if needed and Ide was promised to be attended by at least five of Amal's granddaughters. With any luck they would be friends and they would follow Ide everywhere. Ide was happy – and afraid – that she had made friends. If anything, she felt less alone now. Amal joked about taking Ide under her wings as a daughter but the joke warmed her heart more than anything. One of her kinswoman handed her a pendant and Amal cleared her throat, shutting up the noise of conversation.

“This pendant has been carved and modeled for generations of women. It dates back to the dawn of time and its shape has been passed down from generation to generation to protect a woman's womb. It is meant as protection but also blessing and this will bless you.” she placed it inside Ide's hand. “My mother wore it, my sisters wore it, my daughters wore it and my daughters-in-law wore it. My granddaughters shall wear it when the time comes and you, Ide, you shall wear it, for you have shared a meal with us and I desire to consider you as family.”

Ide looked at the pendant. The first half of it was round although knobbly as if the shape had a head and arms, and was followed by something that resembled a waist which was followed by a larger rounder shape ending like an arrow-head. It was feminine and ancient; it felt as though every single woman who once roamed the face of the world were shaped into that small piece of clay. It felt as “Samar's goddess.” she breathed. Warm tears filled her eyes. Samar was right. She never died. “Thank you.” her voice was warmer than any hearth back home.

“My friend Husna wore one once for fertility. She bore her husband ten children.” said Selima, then, taking a mischievous face: “The pendant aroused her husband too much.”

The tent roared with laughter and Ide fell on her back, holding her stomach, aching from too much of this banter. Zinat fastened it on her neck and Amal insisted for her to take some old coats she no longer uses, old carpets – that did not seem old at all – and more food while the sun dipped below the horizon.

Ide bade them farewell soon enough, not to get caught by the night and the cold that generally followed. They would be worried up at the castle. She would have to give an explanation. She was happy, though,to know that Zinat and Yasmin would be back in the morning. They would weave and talk and over see Roland's estate and maybe Rosamund would join them too. They would play with the children and hum songs and enjoy a beaming sun. It would be a good day, as many would arise. When Roland came back from Jerusalem, how glad would he be to hear about Ide's pregnancy. She couldn't wait. As much as she feared for her health, she was comforted by the idea that she wasn't alone anymore.

When she lay alone in her bed at night, it was to doze off with a smile.

 

 

 

 


	2. 2

It was hard for her to be with child and be aware of it, of her swollen stomach, of that tiny life growing inside of her. It was hard to consider this life, to consider her own and not feel tremendously afraid for the babe. She still envisioned the worst, no matter how excited she was to share the news with Roland. At night, with the familiar ghost of that man she killed in the forest, she saw a pile of soft red fleshy bloody tiny things that almost resembled babies, save for their twisted limbs, their smallness, their overall monstrosity – that was her own, now that she thought of it. Over this pile of skinned flesh, she throned in a white gown that remained white no matter the blood. She knew it was nightmares, but still, she woke up soaked with sweat in an empty bed.

Yasmin and Zinat's presence soothed the anguish of the night and with them she discovered a new manner of laughing, new songs, friendship and understanding. Zinat had a way of gossiping that made even chickens look funny. Yasmin was calm but told the funniest jokes. They became close friends with Ide's servant – Fatma – and spent days in the gardens learning one another's language.

Amal had insisted for Ide to wear dresses and coats she had made and asked her granddaughters to bring her food whenever she wanted. Ide was forbidden to drink anything but water, tea of grape juice. She was also forbidden to eat too much meat, meat that wasn't cooked and was fed with a large numbers of vegetables and fruits.

One day, Ide had the idea to press a citrus fruit into a glass of water which she later found refreshing. If people at the fortress were wary of her newfound friends at first, they later became accustomed to letting them through. The first day they came, a guard had swarmed into Ide's house, visibly upset.

“There are five girls here who wants to see you. At least that is what I understood. They are Saracen, my lady, shall I tell them off?” he had asked, confident that Ide would refuse them.

“Oh no. Let them through. These are my friend and I am much eager for their company.”

At first the guard was aghast but complied to Ide's orders. Ever since they came at first light of day and left when the last ray of sunshine vanished from the ocher ground. They usually strolled in the garden, kept the hives, drank tea, chatted, laughed, ate, cooked, wove and repaired old pieces of clothing. From time to time, Ide followed them to Amal's camp where she was taught the way of tending babies and pregnant women. It felt like Samar's lessons all over again. Other days, she wandered about and healed people, keeping herself busy against her friends' reproaches that she was endangering herself and her baby. What Ide knew was that she survived a plague, an inferno, beatings and abuse and her own self-beating. She had been famished more than once, almost died more than once and it was when she was poorer than a tree in winter. If there was anything she would want to say about herself was that she was strong. She hoped her children would be strong too. She hoped they would survive child bed.

Her visits grew seldom after Amal rebuked her of that attitude. Ide had decided to stop but she still taught her friends her healing ways for them to be able to heal their own families. If anything she believed that women were to be keeper of life in their own house.

 

Roland had been gone more than what was originally planned. Of course Ide knew it was foolish of her to expect wars to end just in time not to worry a wife, knew that it was a thing which length varied often, lasting longer than intended. She tried to picture the life of a soldier's wife and she realized it was her own now. She had been prepared to be a brewer's wife but never a knight's.

The first day, she tried to reassure herself, to tell herself he was about to come back. She did it as well on the third, fourth, tenth, eleventh day. She did it for a week, then two, until those weeks became a month, until she slowly began to sink into despair.

Often she gazed in the distance, wondering where he was, if he was well, if he was injured and at night she nightmared that he was dead, lying in a pile of corpses or taken hostage and sold as a slave to caravans who would sell him to rich kings afar. Often she pondered about him, and cried thinking she would never see him again, that he would never see his child, that she would be left a widow and marry a man she barely tolerated. Roland loved her and kept her free, with any other man, it would be worse.

She thought of her child, left alone in a world where he wouldn't be safe. She even thought of going herself to Jerusalem and ask the king about her husband's safe return. Surely he would comply witnessing the urge of so faithful a wife. When she talked about it with Rosamund the thought was welcomed with her saying that she mustn't do that, for Roland would come back and certainly the king of Jerusalem wouldn't like to be bothered with so trivial a matter that she must pray for her husband's safe return, for it was what women could do. She told her that Baldwin must certainly be himself very busy if he did not led his army into the desert to fight for a land he conquered.

Had she could, Ide would have levied men and launched a party to bring her husband home or find answers. But instead she wove and waited while fearing for her child, her husband and for her friends.

She twisted and turned in her empty bed, missing Roland's warmth and whined and cried and winced and woke up suddenly in the dead of the night, sweating and panting while the picture of his wrung and severed body lingered on her mind like some foul stench. She stood up and walked, her left hand on her heart and the other on her womb. She wondered if so violent anguish would be detrimental to her child. She considered the carafe of wine on the table near the door. She mechanically touched the glass, the smell of alcohol lingering on her nose. What harm could a glass do? If she drank it, then she would sleep tight and forget about Roland's absence. Perhaps her mind would be at ease. She pured herself a glass. Her lips hovered over the wine. What harm could it do?

She suddenly faltered as she felt a move in her womb. She dropped the glass that shattered on the floor. Her child was alive and for the first time she realized it was truly here; for the first time, she realized that it was real. She couldn't drink. She wanted this child! She couldn't drink no more if she wanted to preserve the peace she found. Her hands went to her womb and the child kicked again. She roamed her skin tenderly, a gentle smile on her face when the babe's limbs touched hers. She was a mother. She mustn't drink if she wanted to remain one. She began to cradle herself across the room, eating pastries when she could and hummed as if her babe was out of her belly. She eventually got back to sleep and when her dreams were once filled with Roland's death, they were now filled with her child's shifting face.

 


	3. 3

 

Roland was gone more than two months and if Ide worried sick at night, even despite her newfound fondness for her child, her days were filled with the presence of her friends which soothed her mind enough to let go of her despair. That day they settled outside, under a tree. Zinat had brought tea, Fatma had prepared pastries and Yasmin had brought some dates and figs. They all chatted and ate and Ide giggled as she noticed the swell of her belly allowed her to put a plate there, setting food closer to her nostrils and mouth. She set a scene and jested about, making faces, laughing when her friends laughed at her ridicule.

“That is a fine way to enjoy one's garden.” said Rosamund as she approached the building of planks and carpets that formed a cozy table slightly hovering over the ground.

“Would you care to join us?” asked Ide, making space for her pregnant friend.

Rosamund squinted over Ide's society: for a Christian woman, it would do odd to sit amidst Saracens. The compound of fluffy pillows, of fabric and the smell of food and tea lured her in, though, in spite of her wariness. She took care not to mess her dress and set it all back in place with a quiet grace. Her veil fell right around her face, unlike Ide's who didn't care enough about it.

“Let me introduce you.” said Ide. “This is Fatma, Zinat, Yasmin and Leila.” she pointed to each. “This is Rosamund, the wife of my husband's closest friend.” she spoke in their tongue and gave a warm smile to Rosamund. “She is a friend of mine too, or so I hope.”

Rosamund smiled. “I hope you are not too harsh on me.”

“I would never.” said Ide with the same polite smile.

Zinat offered their new companion some tea, some pastries, dates and figs which she gladly ate and once the introduction was done, they set to work again, sewing, repairing dresses and coats while Ide worked on some tapestry in case Winter was harsher this year than the last. There weren't much tapestries in Ide's household, but a few were hanged in her bedchamber – those of her family to remember them by. Today, Ide had resolved to keep on weaving a work she had begun a few months ago and was inspired by the bright colors of the orange trees, the citrus trees, the grapes on the ocher walls, the flowers that grew along the pond of clear water in which fish swam. The garden was a fresh oasis in the desert and Ide most enjoyed her time there, under the shadow of a high tree that kept her skin from burning, savoring a light breeze, birds tweeting and the aroma of fresh fruits and citrus.

It felt good there, amidst this profusion of serenity, the coziness of puffy pillows, the softness of carpets, the sweetness of her friends' presence, the taste of sugary dates and figs, the crust of pastries, the warmth of tea, the smoothness of silk against her skin. It felt good, letting oneself let go in a mattress of cozy things. Ide nestled in all that, serene, forgetting about her fears, almost dozing off to a peaceful sleep, reveling into oranges and yellows and green and purple and blue.

“What are you weaving?” asked Rosamund who was weaving herself.

Ide gave her tapestry a look. “I am weaving my family. Mary is there with her husband and children and there are my parents, Samar, Jack, my brother, Tom, my late betrothed, my sisters, Mahaut and her husband and Night, my cat.” her smile grew melancholy. “I want my child to know who they were. I want it to be able to tell his ancestors apart. What are you weaving?”

“A tale about a knight triumphing over an army.” she said. “The song of Roland.”

Ide chuckled. “When you say it that way I feel like it is my husband you are talking about.”

Rosamund smiled back. “His mother chose his name well. He too returned victorious. Perhaps I will weave about him too. Stephen would be rather pleased, though he would prefer I weave about him.”

Ide laughed. “Men are prideful creature, aren't they?”

Rosamund smiled. “They are indeed.”

“Where are your children?” asked Ide. “You could have brought them. I am certain they would have enjoyed the food.”

“I left them to the care of my servants and their masters. My sons must begin their learning of Scriptures and I am much eager to have them know how to write and read if they are to serve yours.” Ide felt a hint of bitterness in her voice.

“Perhaps they could train later to become great warriors.” said Ide.

“Wouldn't it be fun if I had a son and you a daughter, or the other way around? We would see that they are to be betrothed.” Rosamund gave a peaceful smile.

“Their fathers would be pleased for sure.” Ide said, feeling a pang of anguish. “Roland hasn't been home yet. I am afraid.” she confessed.

Zinat noticed her fretting over something and gave her a reassuring smile. “He will be back.” she uttered in Ide's Frankish tongue.

“Yes. He must.” added Yasmin.

They practiced, Ide noticed. It felt good having them around them under a flaring sun, but at that precise moment she yearned for her husband's presence beside her. She needed his scent, his face, his hair, his voice. She needed him even if his sudden anger-strokes frightened her. She needed to tell him about their child, about her newfound friends, about her developing a strong friendship with the Saracen women of his fief. She missed him; missed their endless nights talking, devising, when Roland couldn't sleep; their love-making when Roland was dangerously close to her; missed their idle mornings in which he prayed and she wove, missed their eating in bed, bare chested, perfectly naked in outrageous luxury, relishing each other's body some more.

Ide fanned her reddening face, giving a sharp breath. Yasmin and Zinat laughed and so did Rosamund, upon their notice of Ide's sudden bashful demeanor.

“It must be that time of pregnancy.” Rosamund said with a smile.

“What?” Ide was oblivious, hoping they didn't read her mind.

“When I was five months pregnant I grew craving for my husband. Poor Stephen was so tempted he took shelter in a chapel to avoid my eager demands.” she laughed. “Do not worry, it is perfectly normal for a pregnant woman to feel that way.”

“Is it?”

Rosamund nodded. “Christian women tend not to sleep with their husband then, for fear they might falter and succumb to temptation. Our state is sacred when carrying a child.”

Ide gave a smile. “I am no Christian and my husband is away, warring or dead for all that matters.” her voice was bitter. “I pleased myself the other night and it felt good for the first time in months. It relaxed me and I slept better. I don't think that God knows what motherhood feels like.”

Rosamund gasped. “You did?” she made the sign of the cross and Leila frowned. “That is a sin.”

Ide shrugged. “That is a sin only to the men of god. Why should they direct womanly matters?”

“That is true.” said Yasmin. “Women care for women and that is all.”

“Did you develop a distaste for anything?” asked Zinat. “I know my mother did when she was expecting my brother.”

“Why, yes.” Ide said. “I grew fond of oranges and citrus, but I couldn't bear honey no more. Food that was too sugary made me sick and I wouldn't see anything that resembled it. Roland thought I ate something too sugary and grew wary of it. I thought it too before I knew-” she set her hand on her belly. “I wouldn't eat fish either, nor beef and preferred lamb and goat cheese to anything else. I craved lemon cream too. Those were weird tastes.” she chuckled. “I grew fat, though.”

“That is good if you are to deliver a child and care for it.” Fatma said. “I remember your cravings and distastes. You were horrible during those days.”

Ide twitched her lips so they appeared near as a smile. “I was, wasn't I?”

“My sister was pregnant last year and she was craving shrimp heads.” Leila said.

Ide shuddered as well as all the women on the floor over the ground. “That's disgusting.” Fatma groaned.

“It is!” Zinat said.

“Tell me,” asked Rosamund to Ide. “Were you as tired as I was?”

“Oh yes! I slept in for days and I was struck with morning sickness and I could hardly get up without stumbling. Roland even thought I was high on al-” she kept herself from going further and worried her teeth on her lower lip. “Anyway, I thought I was sick but I didn't know it was a child that grew within me. My head hurt so much I thought I had became ill with the sun.”

Yasmin laughed. “With such a fair veil on your head? I think not.”

Ide smiled. “I noticed my breasts grew bigger and softer and it pleased Roland – he was always so eager for me - but I gained no weight to tell of my condition. Roland was oblivious to all that, he was just happy my breasts were bigger and displeased to spend more money on dresses and groaned when I asked for specific food. He just thought I had grown spoiled.” she grew warier. “I wonder if he'll still want me after I deliver. I will be fat. Maybe he will think me ugly and ask that I lose weight.”

“Men tends to want to control everything we do. That is no surprise. They want us to be virgins forever, want us to bear them dozens of brats and look good while and after pregnancy, want us to be as thin as before, want us to be this and that and when we can't give them what they want they yell and claim they are maimed and that we are nagging and mean and we do not think about them.” Leila said. “I think it is them who don't care about us, demanding impossible things.”

Zinat and Yasmin nodded.

“I remember that in every single pregnancies of mine I gained weight around my waist first. My firstborn, it seemed as though I was not pregnant, so large was my waist. My other son, my waist grew thinner and a big hump kept me from seeing my feet.” Rosamund recalled with a smile. “It felt as though one time, my waist was stretched across my belly, the other, across my back.”

“You are so well shaped.” Ide said, in disbelief. “How?”

“I was given a good body, that is all. I am a lucky woman, but bearing a child has a price and it stretches in long white streaks over your stomach, your thighs and breasts.”

Ide squinted. “That's not very appealing.”

Rosamund brushed it off with her hand. “Oh, the joy of seeing your children happily playing is a reward enough.” she gave a crooked grin. “I am pleased at how well I lost the weight I gained.”

Ide sighed. “Oh please, don't remind me! I am so fat I feel like a stuffed camel!”

Zinat laughed. Ide gave her a sarcastic smile. “What? This was funny.” said Zinat as Ide shook her head.

“My cousin never lost her pregnancy weight.” said Fatma. “Her husband was so displeased with it he married another woman, thinner. But my cousin was the only one of his wives able to give him sons so he kept her.”

Yasmin let out a horrified gasp. “That is horrible! As if she was a mare!”

“Men are pigs!” Zinat nodded.

“Some of them are. Most of them are just fine.” Ide hastily said. “Don't you agree, Rosamund?”

“Those are rare.” she nodded. “But yes, they do exist. A kinswoman of mine married a man near Calais and he beat her horribly upon her firstborn, a daughter born deaf. He beat her so much that God Himself decided to punish him and she gave him a son, but he was crippled. The man beat her some more, almost killing her and later divorced her in the name of her so-called adultery and that she was incapable of bringing him healthy sons. The Church agreed with his claims and he married another woman, younger while my kinswoman retired to a convent where, she says, she has never been happier. It makes me think of Saint Odila.” Ide grew gritty. “Good men are rare. Luckily, Ide and I found two of them.”

Ide grinned. “Roland is fine enough. I do wish that he had been more honest with me when-” she blushed. “He keeps a lot of things to himself. He is like a puppy who would have buried its treasure and wouldn't let anyone trespass upon it.” at this moment she saw him, stepping behind her, surprising her, saying his ears rang with his name with mischief before he gave her an itching kiss on the cheek, but he didn't. Roland's absence was a hole in Ide's perception of the world. “He is a good husband.” her voice grew sad.

Rosamund placed her hand over hers. “He will be back, or else I'll join you to drag him by the ass to your bed.”

Ide laughed. “That is, if I am able to walk with these swollen ankles of mine.” she wriggled her feet as to give weight to her words. “My body feels quite monstrous at the moment. My belly doesn't look like human anymore and I swear I noticed my nipples grow darker and bigger and I gained much weight and my cheeks are so fat and it feels too much a bump for merely a child. I also noticed dark red patches over my lips and my nose and I feel ugly every single time I look at myself in the mirror. I suppose I should stay locked in my room until this whole thing is over. Pregnancy is overwhelming and so tiresome!”

Zinat squinted. “Your belly bump is indeed quite big so far.”

“Is that abnormal?” Ide sounded worried.

Leila shrugged. “It must be a big baby. I'll ask grandmother about this. She'll know more than me.”

Yasmin pointed to Ide's necklace. “She'll be pleased upon her knowing that you kept this.”

Ide nodded. “That is a precious gift.”

“What is it?” Rosamund asked, frowning.

“A talisman to bless and protect her.” said Zinat. “It is a tradition in our family that every woman gets one when expecting a child. It is an insurance that the woman will go through it without any harm either on herself, or on her babe.”

Rosamund squinted. “Surely prayer are insurance enough.”

“They're not.” Ide said blankly, almost coldly. “I preyed enough to know that I was rewarded with a dead thing. It did not even resembled a child. If God didn't want me to have children, then maybe this goddess will.”

“That is not a goddess.” Yasmin said. “There is only one God and His name is Allah.”

“Let me believe freely.” Ide asked. “If I believe this talisman is Samar's goddess, she'll be there and she'll protect me.”

Yasmin nodded. “It has protected you well so far.”

“Yes. But I wish I wasn't so hungry all the time and swollen and aching whenever I move.”

Fatma laughed. “After a few pregnancies you'll get used to it.”

“I don't think I can.” Ide groaned. “My belly is good for putting plates on it, though.” she shrugged.

“At least you're finding it new uses.” Leila said.

“It is so big, though. I feel like it is bigger than Rosamund's, and she has been pregnant longer than me.” Ide said, glimpsing at her Christian friend's stomach. “I wonder if it means everything is alright. I will not lie by saying that I fear not the worse. I expect to miscarry again any moment soon.” she did her best to hide her fear but failed as faint concern-wrinkles spread over her forehead.

“Why would you?” Rosamund asked with concern.

“Have you been drinking? Have you done everything Amal told you to do?” asked Leila.

Ide gulped and nodded. “I was tempted to drink again to numb my anguish but restrained. As for food, I did what she told me.”

“Drink?” Rosamund was aghast. “Ide...”

“Did you experience the same tokens of miscarriage as you did for your other child?” Leila asked again.

Ide nodded. “No. But I am afraid still.”

“You've been scarred by your previous miscarriages, that is all.” Leila gave a smile. “Do not fret. If anything goes right, you will soon see your bellybutton rise, have trouble sleeping and feel your breasts growing more tender. You might even experience heartburn but it is perfectly normal. My cousin experienced it all and her children turned out to be just fine.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?” Ide scorned.

Leila shrugged. “I hope it can.”

“I feel like staying in bed throughout this period. I'll never be able to put on my dresses and walk if my belly grows bigger.” she gave a sorry smile. “I will not be able to come down and be taught by Amal from now on.”

“She'll come herself.” Yasmin said. “Do you remember what she taught you?

“I think so, yes. I'll have much to learn about when my babe is out – that is, if it does – especially about raising it.”

“Your health is to me uncanny.” Rosamund said. “As for raising a child I must confess that it is the hardest part. You don't want it too spoiled, or destitute, and you must watch over his health in his early age to make sure it survives childhood and you must mend his wounds, heal his little sicknesses, teach it how to fend for itself and teach it discipline.” she sighed. “It is a hard job for a woman alone. You must be ready to sacrifice your sleep for that and most importantly when the babe is out, you must be ready to wake up every single night to feed it or change its clothes. It is – it is exhausting.”

Ide blanched. “Oh.”

Rosamund gave her a kind smile. “Don't worry, though. Having a child is a blessing and I am sure that with you as a mother it will do just fine. Who knows, maybe your child will be quiet. I know that my firstborn was loud as a donkey but my second-born was quieter than a purring cat. It was dangerous for him especially since I couldn't hear it and if I couldn't, he wouldn't have been fed or changed. Now look at him, little Henry is louder than his older brother and more lively.”

“What if I can't be a good mother?” Ide's voice reeked fear. “What if it dies because of me?”

“You won't let it. I know you won't.” Fatma said.

“Besides, you can always come to me for help. I'll be glad to advise you on the matter. But you must also see to it with Roland. A husband generally has opinions in how to raise his sons.” Rosamund said.

“I don't know if it will be a girl or a boy; and Roland has not been home for two months. How will I do if he remains away after I deliver this child of ours? What if I can't feed it? What will I do, all alone?”

“You may need a wet nurse.” Fatma nodded. “I know some women in town who recently gave birth. I'll ask them.”

Ide gulped and lowered her head, almost shameful at the idea that she could not breastfeed her child. Were it the case, she would have failed as a mother and failed as a woman. True the child would be alive but she wouldn't truly mother him.

“As for the rest, rest assured that you will do just fine. I'll help you feeding it and taking care of it and I'll watch over your resting.” Fatma continued. “Don't hesitate to remain in bed long. My mother used to rest months before she was able to wander around again.”

“My sister says that if she stayed in bed for too long, she forgot how walking felt like.” Leila frowned. “What would be best would be you walking around and us coming to see you and watch over you. I'll bring Amal to teach you some things and perhaps we'll sing you our songs.”

“Good. I need distraction.” Ide said, knowing damn well that idleness did her no good without Roland by her side and with fears as her only company.

“Oh! We could ask stories from the caravansary! We'll send you merchant wives! You'd be amazed at what they tell! They give the vividest accounts of foreign men and cities and we heard that some cities in the east have buildings which roof is covered with blue and there is also tales of women richly dressed dancing the dance of their gods and women with long dark hair and narrow eyes as beautiful as the moon!” Zinat enthusiastically said, a wide smile on her face.

“To be frank, Jerusalem alone is a sight to behold. Seeing things twice makes it less than what it was when you first experiences the sight but I believe that even if I saw that town a hundred times, I would still gawk in awe.” Ide gave a smile as Rosamund nodded. “For us, used to smaller buildings and small villages, a city is a sight, even one that Jerusalem would make seem like a farmstead.”

Rosamund frowned. “I went to Paris once: a beautiful sight, but much too smelling of piss to my taste. I like it here, it feels good. Besides, the cathedral is all but unimpressive.” she sewed in silence for a minute, joined by the other women around. “Tell me Ide, do you plan on baptizing your child?”

“Roland would want it to be baptized. I have no objection to his will. Although I'd prefer him to be present at the ceremony.”

“In case he isn't there, do you still plan on performing it?”

Ide gave it a quick thought. “Yes. It isn't for faith I do that but to ensure that my child will receive his inheritance in peace and that it won't be maimed or unconsidered by its fellow comrades because of some religious convention. I'll do that for it, but also for my husband.”

“What of Saracens? Will you teach it to hate us too?” Leila sounded bitter.

Ide gave a warm smile. “No. If it is to rule, I want it to respect those it has power upon. I want it to learn your tongues, learn your ways of life, learn everything that is yours only to protect your interests better. It would do it no good having you as enemies.” She shrugged. “Besides, who would I be if I let it harm friends who helped delivering him?”

Rosamund frowned. “Don't you plan on calling Christian midwives?” The four Saracen women gave her a squinting look.

Ide shrugged. “I don't trust Christians enough to let them near myself when I don't know them.” old scars grew sizzling. “I know the care they have of me.” her voice was cold, angry, bitter.

Silence fell in the garden, broken only by the sounds of singing olive-trees and dogs and chirping of birds. The women kept on their needle-work, sewing, weaving, drinking when thirsty, eating when hungry. Ide's mind seemed to have been set aflame by old memories – memories she would rather want to forget – in which her house burned, her hive burned, her cat burned and everything burned, just like her memories. She could almost feel her breath stifled with acrid smoke, almost coughed and choked and was compelled on the ground for fresh air. Almost. She knew where she was. She knew she had a child she wished to bring to the world. She knew that Normandy was far away, that it would take months to travel there, that nothing had ever been sweeter. She knew she was a married woman, though she knew not where her husband was.

“Do you wish it were a boy or a girl?” asked eager Zinat.

Ide stopped and hummed her thinking. “I think I would want a son so that Roland's line is secure; a son for him to teach how to manage, a son he would train; a son for Jerusalem and its crown. It would mean sacrifice but a son would do us good.” her smile grew tender and soft. “But I would love a daughter. I would teach her how to heal, pass onto her Samar's teachings; I would teach her how to sew, teach her how to brew, teach her many things I believe are true.” she touched her pendant. “She would get that pendant and I would grow old knowing her a healthy woman.”

“Were it a girl, you would marry her off to some noble or she would be sent to a convent. That is the way for us, Christian women.” Rosamund bitterly said. “She wouldn't be as lucky as we are.”

“I would die myself before she is sent to a convent. I agree that she should marry some nobleman, but a convent? Never!” Ide gritted

“What if her faith compels her to?” asked Rosamund.

“Then she must be a wise girl and try to convince me with her wits.” Ide's voice was firm.

“What name would you give it?” said Zinat in haste, trying to avoid any battle of will between Ide and Rosamund.

“If it is a boy, Roland would wish to call it William and I agree. That choice will fit well. If it is a girl, I thought about Adela, Agnes or perhaps Mathilda... I am not yet fixed. I would like to name her something pretty.”

“What about Emma or Clothilde?” Rosamund said, eyes locked on her needle-work. “Those were queens, wouldn't it echo your son's name?”

“It would. I'd like her to be named after someone brave, but between those two queens, I don't know...” Ide sighed.

“Well, Emma managed to keep her husband's realm close to her firstborn, while Clothilde succeeded in converting her husband to the rightful faith.”

Ide grunted. “Emma it is, then.” she giggled. “If I have another daughter I'll name her Clothilde, I suppose.”

“If I have one I'll name her that too.” Rosamund said, fierce in her defense of that name she hoped would befit an eventual daughter of hers. “Mathilda would be better, I think.”

Ide smiled and shrugged. “As you wish. Mathilda is indeed a beautiful name.” and it would help her remember Mahaut by.

Ide suddenly grew melancholy as her thoughts drifted to her friend, in London such as rumor said, growing rich and prosperous, her husband wandering as far to Iceland to trade with those tall people living amidst smoke and snow, such as she had been told, trading with men to the east, with Paris and Italy. Ide hoped he would go as far as to wander in Jerusalem, and perhaps here, in Roland's lands. She would ask him how she fared and if everything went smoothly and if, perhaps, she had children and in a few years, when her children would be grown and when she would have healed, she would travel to London, buy a crew, buy the world and sail to her and take her back with her in these lands she knew so much happiness in.

“I wonder if she is still as beautiful as before. She may even be hunting again.” she whispered to herself.

Fatma frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” Ide smiled. “It worries me that Roland must be so far and I know not what he is doing and if he fares well.” her eyes grew aloof. “No messenger came, and those I sent came back empty-handed. What if he dies? The men I love all die.”

“That uncertainty is indeed worrying.” Rosamund nodded. “Stephen hasn't been home either. I have received words he is in Jerusalem, dwelling in Roland's lodgings there, but he didn't tell me if he would come back soon. I suspect he is waiting for his friend.”

“How do you do that? How to be a crusader's wife?” Ide lamented.

“I don't know.” Rosamund said. “My husband is a sheriff and a retainer. He is bound to his master's lands and I have been used to his coming back home every night after a day of hard work. Ever since he agreed to Roland's offer and set us there, I have felt the expense of a crusader's wife's life; my husband doesn't come home, doesn't play with his sons, doesn't comfort me with warm embraces. I often wish we never left. I often wish I would still get to see my cousin.” she gasped and hid her mouth with her hand realizing she had let go of her bitterness. “I am sorry. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful.”

Ide shook her head. “Don't apologize for speaking out your feelings. It is true that it pains me to know you unhappy, but I wish you to know how glad I am you are here; for I need the guidance of a Christian woman if I ever am to shine by Roland's side in his Christian world. I couldn't have asked for more virtuous and generous woman.”

“You flatter me.” Rosamund blushed.

“Truth isn't flattery.” Ide said. “You are a wonderful woman. No wonder Stephen is so smitten with you.”

Rosamund flustered in bashful demeanor, drawing giggles from Zinat and Yasmin. Fatma winked to Ide while Leila went on, un-bothered on her needle-work.

“I love him.” Rosamund said. “But still, I loved Constance and Godfrey was tolerable. I miss them. I know Stephen abode by his moral-sense, but still, I miss them.”

Ide shrugged. “To be frank I am glad Constance married Godfrey. Roland came back to me and if it weren't for her, then I would have died. It sounds selfish that way but in a way, I owe them what I have here. I also owe Roland loyalty and I must hate those he despises but I am glad for them. I hope to travel to Normandy again and meet them and see my child play with theirs. I would then travel to Caen and London to meet with friends and family. You are right to miss them. It feels like we left something behind and in my case, I think it is for the best.”

“I am not quite fixed on that yet.” Rosamund confessed.

Ide gave a smile. “She must be beautiful, Constance. If she as much as look like a little like you, I understand why Roland wanted to wed her.”

“She is indeed beautiful. To be honest, she is even fairer than me. She could be a queen.” Rosamund frowned. “Aren't you jealous?”

Ide shrugged. “No. I know Roland loves me and that is enough. I have too much to fear to doubt my husband's faithfulness. Besides, for me to doubt him, he would need to be home, and he isn't. Some years ago, I would have been mad with jealousy, now is different.” she laughed. “And I always love beautiful women anyway.”

“Then you must love me.” Zinat's voice rang with laughter.

“Like a bee loves a flower.” Ide replied, amused to see Zinat so confident in her own beauty; a warm one, with her large almond-shaped dark eyes, her warm skin, her long curly hair, the markings on her chin, her thick eyebrows and heavy eyelids. Her face was long and narrow but her jawline was smooth and soft and if her nose was long, her eyes made up for it.

“How odd, how good to be so unconcerned by jealousy.” Rosamund said as Fatma nodded.

“I am rested about that. This, however,” she showed her belly. “Is not as restful. I can't wait to deliver! Being pregnant is all but perks!”

“Sadly that is us, womens lot.” Rosamund said. “I hope you have a boy and I a daughter.”

“I hope I have a living child, that's all.” Ide grew gloomy.

“I will pray for that.”

“We will too.” Yasmin said. “And your pendant will protect you.”

Ide nodded her thanks and they resumed their work, patching holes, stitching gaps, weaving and sewing warm clothes and tapestries for the Winter to come while singing and eating and chatting as well about poems of love, but also healing and babies and legends, gossiping about what the merchant told when resting in the caravansary, about their wifes, their slaves, their treasures, wondering what lay east, dreaming about traveling, about cities made of gold and blue, about mountains sharp as teeth, about those dancing priestesses, about south, also, and the accounts of strange buildings in the desert, tall pillars ending with pikes, about animal-headed monsters, about the sea, about their husbands, comparing their merits until all of them agreed they were flawed enough to to delve into it further, about their families, ancestors, about light, about death, about everything, so vast the extent of their interests.

Then, when the sun began to dip below the horizon, Zinat, Leila and Yasmin left with gifts from Ide and Fatma helped her to bed while Rosamund went to pick up her children, relieved that she had spent an afternoon not worrying about them, rested and enriched by the company of fellow women. Ide still felt a twist of anguish in her stomach that blurred with the hint of her child's presence in her womb. Ide was afraid, as always. There wasn't a day she wasn't afraid. She pictured Roland, dead in the desert, a prey to crows and wolves, she pictured him alive, sold as a slave to those men of the east. She pictured the worst, the best kept at bay. She wept thinking she would never see him again and wept some more, aching from his absence and her cold empty bed – Roland was always hot at night and Ide often nestled by his side to relish his warmth.

“It must be a son. Give me a son.” she prayed, her hand on her pendant; for a son wouldn't cast her away. A son would secure her position. A son would help her remember Roland by.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried


	4. 4

 

“How are you feeling today?” asked Amal as Ide walked her round the patio.

“I feel enormous. I can't wait for relief. Who would have thought pregnancies would be so hard?”

“You experienced it twice, before, have you not?” Amal frowned.

“Not that long. I usually miscarries three to four months after the beginning of my pregnancy. Now I am just waiting for that inevitable moment. It should happen soon enough.” Ide's voice was dull.

“My sweet girl,” Amal said as she held her closer. “Why would you think that? Why would you not have faith?”

Ide shrugged. “I don't know. It seems hard having faith after everything I endured. I know nothing in life goes according to expectations so why should I expect that pregnancy to go well? I compared yesterday and my belly is almost twice as big as hers. How is that normal? How is that not an indication that something is inherently wrong?”

“Your belly is large, it is true enough, but so far you look just as healthy as my daughters when they birthed their children. You needn't worry about that.” Amal gave her a smile. “Come, now, Ide. What tells you that your child won't be strong and well-shaped? Why so afraid that it might die. Now is not then and you would do well discarding fear. It does you ill good.”

Ide sat on a thick layer of cushions and carpets in a room that opened to the courtyard, joined by Amal as Fatma brought fruits and tea. Ide savored the pomegranate, delighted by the fruit Roland told her so much about. It had been more than two months, now, and she still didn't receive news either of him, or of his troops. The king in Jerusalem remained tragically quiet.

Ide was afraid and tired. Every night she woke up sweating from nightmares and seemed to be unable to sleep, either because of her condition, or because of her anguish. Oh sure, she slept throughout the afternoon, but it still wasn't enough for her dizzy head and it seemed as thought she couldn't walk the fields any longer, either from fatigue, or from her swollen legs. So Amal took care of coming herself; her visits were seldom, but still she came.

“I want my husband back.” Ide sighed. “He doesn't know about the child yet. I would hate it if he died without knowing of it.” that fear; relentlessly nibbling at her.

“Why must you voice fear? Why not hope?”

Ide chuckled. “I guess I am not Christian enough.”

“Aye, I reckon.” Amal patted her cheek. “For now let us concern with other matter. You spoke with Zinat and Yasmin about pregnancy, that is good. You heard me and abode by me regarding the knowledge I passed onto you. Now, things are going to be a little less difficult for you and I advise you not to fidget around too much. You must rest, now, otherwise you will be strained even before the real battle has begun.”

“You speak of delivery like you would a war.” her voice had a worried edge.

“Oh, I have seen both, child. These are incredibly similar in women's strength. Our lot is heavy and we are left in dire situations.” Ide gulped and paled. Amal sheltered her hand in hers. “Do not fret, though. I can sense that you will survive it all.”

“Roland should see his child.” she murmured, low enough to be heard only by herself.

“Come now, it is time for your lesson.” She mock-scolded her which made Ide laugh. “You have a nice ring in your voice when laughing. Try not to lose it.”

Ide nodded, drinking some of the mint tea she had grown to love to the point she was always smelling it when she entered a room.

She spent the rest of the afternoon devising, learning, drifting on Amal's sea-like knowledge, sailing with a sore ease through the science of generations of women. She knew when to stop breastfeeding, when to start teaching her child how to walk and talk, she knew how to notice the first signs of miscarriage – not that she had not known them intimately – how to prevent it, how to tell when a woman was strong enough to bear children, what to do with illness and how frail babies were, how to tend them and how to heal them. She knew almost everything, but her knowledge was based of concepts. She wasn't a mother yet and when she was, she knew she would hardly recall Amal's lessons. Healing others was easy, she had years of practice, while tending her child was something anew – that was, if it did not die first off.

She remembered with a mix of sadness and tenderness the first time she healed someone: a boy about her age, while Samar was watching, alert to her every moves, unhesitant to call a mistake or a misstep. It was a fortune – or a misfortune depending on your point of view – that his illness was a mere cold. Yet still, Ide, at fifteen had been a disastrous healer. The boy, nevertheless, died a few years later and was burnt on the pyre she had seen her mother, father, sisters, brother, betrothed be taken in acrid smoke to their Heavens. So much for healing people if they died.

If anything, she knew that life did not last. Nothing did.

 

One day she was drawn near the pantry by loud mewing and found a black cat which had recently given birth to five little kittens all black and white whose eyes were opened. Ide frowned and knelt as well as she could given her condition with a great deal of groans and grunts. Her eyes opened wide to the kittens, their meows little squeaks and she cooed at them, petting the mother, scratching the back of her spin and behind her ears. The cat purred and showed her stomach for more caresses.

Ide noticed she was rather emaciated and fetched some milk and cut small pieces of mutton to give the cat that was most certainly famished. She set herself on a made up couch of straw and carpets and gazed at the cat, gently nudging her to eat and drink while the kittens sniffled at her fingers. Ide giggled, full of glee at the sight of such small balls of purring fur.

The cat, once its stomach full came to rub her head on Ide's and lay there, against her swollen stomach and rested, demanding more strokes which Ide granted with serenity. The kittens, drawn by hunger staggered to their mother and began to eat from her nipples. The she-cat purred as they did so and Ide dozed off, mesmerized, savoring the warmth of the cat, the peace its purring gave and resolved to come feed the lot so long as the mother needed it.

“Should I take you in?”

The she-cat meowed and Ide rubbed her nose on her face. The cat purred louder and eased its paws on Ide's forearm, almost pulling it towards it.

“Yes, I think I should.” She giggled. “How should I name you, then?”

The cat stretched.

“I cannot name you Night. It will do you ill luck...” she pondered out loud. “How about... Littlewarmth? No. Ashstar. Do you like that?” she cooed to the cat. “Huh? Do you like that?”

The cat meowed.

“Ashstar it is!” she scratched it behind the ears. “ A star illuminating darkness. Welcome into my house, my beautiful girl.”

 

On one other day she was called down to the caravansary upon the plea of a man whose wife was in dire need of tending. No man of science could, it seemed, be found. Either they were gone to wander village to village, either they were sleeping or busy tending others. Nonetheless, it was up to Ide to heal that poor woman her husband seemed to hold dear to his heart.

Swallowing her doubts, trying to reach that serene state of confidence, she beckoned Fatma by her side and strode out of her house, down to the caravansary, followed both by her servant and her newly adopted cat.

Fatma frowned. “What's with the cat?”

“This is Ashstar.” Ide's smile grew wide and warm. “I fed her and now she follows me everywhere. She is a delight to be around. I think she will like the child.”

“You would do well not to let it play with her then. Cats scratches and suffocates babies.”

Ide shrugged. “Bah! She'll be too busy with her own kittens to mind my child.” she giggled. “Look at her walking proudly, tottering to reach us; isn't she a wonder?”

Fatma shook her head, nose wrinkled. “I don't want to hear you whine when she'll have hurt your child.”

Ide rolled her eyes. “If my child comes out alive that means it can survive even a cat.” she groaned and held her back.

“You should bustle less.” Fatma noted.

“I know, but that woman needs help.” she remembered Samar. “I wasn't taught everything I know to let it wither and blunt while I lay idle in a bed when someone is in need of my craft.”

“I should have worried about the mother instead of the cat.” Fatma muttered to herself.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Slow your pace, lady and mind your back. Give me your arm when you feel like resting.”

“I can manage. I need this anyway.” she gave a smile that had a sad edge. “If I lay idle, I might as well drink and die.”

Fatma grew uncomfortable, her lips twitching, her eyes bulging.

Ide noticed her discomfort and gave chase to that sad edge in her smile. “I am sorry. Now, let us hurry before that woman gets any more ill.”

“Yes lady.”

They reached the caravansary and plowed their way through the throng with the considerable help of Ide's swollen belly and imposing figure. She passed, the gates, the fountains, the camels – which Ashstar tried to befriend - the yard, stalls filled with colorful spices from across the East, soft silks, jewelry, wood and other goods some of them hoped to sell as far as Venice. She crossed the gates of the main building, a low square made of ocher bricks without any openings if not the massive carved wooden door that let to the courtyard Ide strode through, her steps thumping on fair pave stones, her face refreshed by the well in the center of the square yard and headed to the gallery where she was expected by a nervous man, pale and thin with fear. He must love his wife dearly.

She followed him to the small cell they slept in. Outside, the building was stern, without any adornments, without any opening but inside it, it was light, carved; stairs led to the roof, to the upper cells, and it was all but windows and intricate caves and chapels. Ide almost felt herself inside a cathedral.

His wife was laying down on multiple layers of carpet, her hair smeared across pillows, her face pale and her cheeks red with fever. Ide swallowed down every fear she had that she might get infected. She wrapped a cloth around her mouth, tied her hair up, and knelt to her. After a quick inquiry with the merchant, she deduced that the woman had caught a bad cold and as an odious complement to her misery, had eaten a rotten piece of meat a few days ago that made her vomit every single piece of food she had formerly swallowed.

With a great deal of soothing words Ide worked her way through the diagnosis and managed to lower the fever by pulling more covers over, gave her some of her herbal tea to calm her stomach and gave strict instructions to the husband as to what to feed her, what to gave her to lower the fever, how many times to press a fresh cloth over her forehead and comforted him saying his wife was strong and would survive the illness no matter what. If anything, Ide knew a sturdy woman when she saw one. This one was no exception.

The merchant came back about a week later, carrying with him a wide smile and a carpet, joined by his radiant wife, beaming and wrapped in multiple layers of clothing. Ide invited them into her house, fed them and inquired upon the woman's strength and health. She was glad to reckon that the woman was in perfect health and shape, that she had recovered enough so that her husband no longer feared for her. When Ide had asked why she had left to follow her husband, the woman answered that she had always craved adventures and loved her husband too much to leave him alone, which Ide saw as a further reason for her quick recovery.

They came from Persia and had been traveling together for years, left their tenants in charge of their large and well-supplied house which, they said, harbored the most wonderful garden of Shiraz. They sold saffron, spices from India, and mostly carpets. Ide was awed at their lack of accent. Compared to them she spoke almost as to give further a hint that she was a foreigner.

They came to thank her for her services and gifted her with a splendid carpet that weighted almost Ide's weight when pregnant. Moved to tears, Ide mumbled her thanks, flabbergasted at such generosity. She bid them stay so long as they wished and in return granted them a jar of her finest honey and some bread, as well as a promise to always welcome them in her house when they would feel like it, which the husband politely declined, claiming that she had already been good enough to them, that they were most eager to resume their journey and that her promise to harbor them in the caravansary until the woman would have fully recovered was more than enough.

Ide thanked them again profusely, Fatma with her and walked them back to the gates of the fortress. She then bid several servants to carry the heavy carpet to her bed chambers, where she thought it would be best placed and asked the carpets already there to be draped over the floor in another room. Due to her condition, she could hardly help but prepared tea and refreshments for those who had worked. Once this done, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she lay on her bed, gazing though the high windows at the sun.

She almost mourned her house, for she knew Roland had plans for a defensive fortress and a keep, but still, she loved that house, how luminous it was, how peaceful it was and pictured her with her child, playing, teaching it how to walk on the carpet; the gift; the proof generosity thrived still and that she was far from a country where her skill was looked upon with wariness and contempt. No one had stopped her, there, not even the most distrustful of men and Ide suddenly felt powerful. No one stopped her. She had been completely and utterly free to use her skills and had been rewarded for it.

She jumped to her feet, smiling, laughing, giddy and beaming and gasped a soft gasp noticing how soft, how thick, how smooth, how beautiful the carpet was; red, gold, yellow, ocher, blue, opal, the colors melted into patterns and lines that entranced her into a spiral of awe.

“Show me life’s delicacies! Show me the world’s beauty! Show me love! Show me bliss! Show me light, not this darkness!” She exclaimed, her hands in the air. “Show me life! Show me what I can't miss!” It rose higher and higher until it drowned the other voice filled with pain, and shone with brightness as light gleamed in the room. Ide was free, taken away from the gaping wound that was her former life.

“I want to live! To live! To live!” she chanted.

She began to spin on herself, giggling, laughing, weeping hot tears of joy.

“I am free! I am free! The sun shines on me and I am free!” she chanted.

She spinned and spinned and danced and danced, waving her arms in the sunlight, letting it warm her skin and danced and danced again following a tune only she heard. She danced and thought of Samar, of her mother, her father, her sisters, her brother, Tom and everyone that she had known. She felt them here and there, watching over her swelling her heart with former affection. She recalled their voices, their smell, their warmth and it made her dance more and she spinned on herself, crying, smiling with a warm affection.

“Mother, father, oh, if you could see me; how proud must you be!” she said. “Samar if you saw me, how proud must you be! Sisters brother, how proud must you be! You saw me die and you saw me live! I made a choice! How proud must you be!” living would do them no good, no favor. If she died they would die a second time. “And you my babies, I am so sorry. I lost you, it is my fault, but still, I loved you in death and I shall honor you, for your mother needs to do better. I shall never forget you, and be a mother to be proud of.”

She stopped spinning and lay on the carpet, wiped off her tears and smiled in the sun. ‘Carry on.’ Samar once said. ‘No matter how hard it is, carry on.’ Ide closed her eyes. the end wasn’t as close as near. She stood up again. She was alive and free, wed to a man who respected her as much as he loved her. She would heal. She would laugh. She would cry also, but it would be trumped over by her newfound willpower. She would survive it all; out of spite or for herself, but she would survive. If there was a certainty it was this: She was alive and she had decided to stop hovering over death.

“I am alive.” she danced some more.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. Yepyepyep yep. Ide finally saw beyond her fears it it was intoxicating and now she's dancing and if Roland could be back, then everything would be perfect!


	5. 5

 

 

“Shit!” he muttered in anger as he tripped over a piece of carpet on the ground in the darkness of a room barely lit by the moonlight sending clattering plates on the floor. “Shit.” he uttered in a hushed tone, realizing he might have woken her up. It was far from his original design and he nervously tiptoed around the bed as her frame in the bed stirred.

What was originally a two-week-long campaign turned out to be a few months travel across all the kingdom of Jerusalem, from Damas, to Edesse, to Acre to the most remote parts of the kingdom, either to defend cities against Saracens and Turks, either to stifle rebellion, either to see people bend to Baldwin. Roland managed to lead his troops to victory - glory even! - and although the core of the battle was a dwelling he took pleasure in, for months he despaired about Ide's absence in his bed, and if he thought about getting a whore or a soldier for mere company, he would not damn himself behaving that way when he loved his wife and was married in the eyes of God.

Instead, every night, he had made her up by his side, recreating her soft presence and her frame, that, he realized, he had pictured thinner, smaller. He checked his breath. He wasn't drunk and still something was off with her frame. Had she grown fatter? Had he idealized her?

He cursed himself not being able to send her news of him, but the king had requested all messengers to be at his service and a petty baron like Roland, although immensely rich, could but comply to the king's order while seeing other higher noblemen get news from their family. He wouldn't lie claiming he wasn't worried. Every day away from her was a day where he would doubt whether she was fine or not. He worried she would drink again, he worried she might be sad again, he worried she might leave, he worried she might not be loved, he worried she might be miserable. He knew her; one crack and she crumbled. He merely prayed for her to stay strong in dire times when he could not reach her.

Those worries, along with the aftermaths of war came tormenting him at night, during the day, he had other things to take care of; warring, riding, staring... He was the king's servant and had to act as such and not as a husband.

Upon his return, whacked and exhausted to Jerusalem he found Stephen in his private apartments at court, worried sick, nibbling at his fingers, tired of months spent looking after him, feeding upon every scraps of information regarding himself. He spent a few days sleeping, eating and attending court meetings in which the king devised his future endeavors and without further ado, not even inquiring about the state of his affairs, he rode off, escorted by Stephen towards his fief, trusting that his troops would follow when they would be ready.

He rode hard until late into the night and finally stepped into his bedchamber, still wearing his war linens, crusted with filth, stinky and sweaty, smelling of horse, leather, blood and musk.

With a grunt he sent his boots fly across the room, dropped his hose and tossed his filthy shirt on – a new carpet? Now, things had definitely changed here. He seeped with delight on his soft bed next to his soft wife, listening and relishing her soft breathing.

He lay beside her, his muscles finally relaxed, his mind finally at peace. He nestled against her, still confused as to why she seemed so different in spite of her being truly his wife – he could recognize the way she breathed and her smell and her snoring.

He startled as he felt her reaching for his hand and could almost feel her grinning. Her hand was burning hot against the cold of his skin and she led it calmly across her belly, under the covers and Roland frowned, puzzled as to why her stomach had such an unfamiliar shape. He frowned even harder, trying to make out a shape and gasped as he felt that a prominent bump had grown where usually her belly was rather flat. It was warm and hard, taut, tensed-skin and a bellybutton sprouted as though it was the lower part of a tree.

He gulped. “Ide.” he croaked, almost choking.

She chuckled and rested his hand near the spot their child tended to kick, a faint move there to finish his astonishment. He eagerly set himself closer and eagerly looked at her, awake, serene.

“Ide?”

“Yes.”

“Is that...” he was agape and hardly uttered the words without choking.

“Yes.”

“You are-”

“I am.”

“But – I – I thought,” he stammered. “I thought you couldn't. I thought – You – How?”

She turned completely to him and he gave a low whistle at the mountain that was her stomach. “I am happy here.” she said as though it was reason enough. “Rather, I am pleased and I made a few friends to advise me on the matters of pregnancy; Saracen women. Told me I had to stop drinking and I did. Told me those demons as you say were the one eating my child – My child.”

He frowned, disapproving. “Saracens?”

“Yes. They make me truly happy and you know me; religion is but nothing. Don't blame me now. Blame me later. Now let me just relish you being here.” her serene voice creaked. “I was afraid, Roland.” she gave a sob. “I was afraid of your never coming back.” her face twisted with pain and anguish, and misery filled her every words, hiding how close she had wandered to dark tides – hiding still their first child, the one she buried in the forest, painful memories of her believing she would never see him again and that her fleeting bliss had been but a dream. How close to that had she almost tripped upon. Amal and her granddaughters had held her back and Fatma had chided her into watching her steps. Those were fine women Ide had chosen to befriend. She ought to repay their favors and soon.

He gave a peck on her cheek; a soft breeze, a gentle kiss. “I will always come back to you.” he kissed her belly. “And to our child; our son.”

Ide snorted. “How can you be so certain it will be a son?”

“Its kick was powerful.”

She rose an eyebrow. “You want me to punch you? Perhaps then you'll reckon female strength.”

Roland grinned. “Oh that I do. Wasn't it you to hoist me up in full armor a few years back? If I recall you were drunk and staggering.”

Ide gulped, the memory a sizzling knife. “I was.” she grew confident again. “Do you accept my challenge then?”

He grunted and fell back on the bed. “No.” he sighed and closed his eyes, red fields of corpses dancing on his eyelids. “I am tired of war and I want to love you, not fight you.”

“Wise decision.” she nodded. She frowned and set her jaw in a mild anger. “You should have send me words. I could have told you about our child.” her voice had a hard edge to it.

“I should have, yes, but found no messenger the king wished to lend me.” he shifted as to face her again. “Please, I am tired of fighting.”

“And I am tired of waiting.” she whispered to herself but loud enough for him to hear.

“I did my best, Ide! You have no idea – I” he croaked and swallowed. “I missed you. Every day I missed you. I missed you even when you are unbearable! I missed you even when you drink and let yourself sink.” she grew cold beside him; not how she expected it. Night was treacherous. “I missed you like a madman! I missed you when I myself drowned! I missed you in my bed and I missed you guarding my sleep! When I say I yearned to come back to you I am no liar! I am not lying to you, Ide. I swore an oath never to. The king relied on every single man there and I was sworn not to leave him until he gave it to me. Disobeying my king would cost me my fief, thus your happiness. I cannot risk it.” his voice was calm yet hard and sharp.

Ide gulped. “I guess I let my fears carry my mind, then. It was hard knowing you astray picturing the worst. Among them was you being slaved away from me, or being killed and I being cast out.”

“Thank you for your trust.” his voice icier.

“I trust you!” Ide snapped. “It is the world I do not trust.” she locked pleading eyes into his. “The unknown is terrifying, Roland. There was a sea of it when you were gone. I worried this child would not survive, would be crippled or misshaped or I would die giving birth and then you were not here and I had no new and pictured the worst. I basked in the unknown, both inside and out! It is not my first child; not my first twist of fate.”

“Are you still mourning over it?” he asked, more gently.

Ide shed a single tear and nodded, a knot locked inside her throat. “The pregnancy brings it all back. I cannot live the same pain again. I would not survive it.”

Roland shrugged. “I am here anyway.” he nestled closer to her. “Besides, have you not made friends?”

Ide smiled. “I have,” warm shivers ran her down thinking about the Saracens women of the valley. “But I missed my husband. Every day wondering where you were was agony.”

“Every day not being able to send words was torture.”

“I'll have a boy bound to my service to serve you both as squire and messenger. I'll have a girl to tend messages too.” she resolved.

“Spies?”

“Spies to tell me of your well-being when you are astray.” she shrugged. “I cannot live in the unknown again. This kind of loneliness belongs to Normandy and that's that.”

“Do as you see fit. So long as it does not jeopardize my position I don't mind.”

“I am your wife, and perhaps will be the mother of your child and most of all, I am no fool; jeopardizing your position would do me ill.”

Roland sighed. “Now I have a reason more to come back.”

“Am I no reason enough?” Ide gave a vexed pout.

“You are every reason, every tie, every callings.” he brushed her swollen belly with his hand. “And this child, when it is born – for I refuse considering otherwise – will bind me to this land stronger than ever.”

“So you are saying this child makes you want to come back more?”

Roland sighed, feeling that he tip-toed on a frozen lake. “What I am saying is that I wish I had known you were pregnant earlier and that I missed my wife. What I mean is that I love you dearly and that I want this talk to be over, for I am tired.”

She grew soft and parted his hair from his forehead. “Will you be able, though?”

He shrugged. “Now that you are beside me, yes.” his lips spread into a mischievous grin. “Your snoring cradles me.”

“I don't snore!”

“You do!”

“No!”

“You do and you push me out of bed!”

“I don't!”

“You do! And now that you are expecting I'll fell on the carpet more often!”

“Call me fat!”

“I call you pregnant!”

“It's yours!”

“Damn right it is! Tell your child to stop pushing me down!”

She gasped. “Tell it yourself, it's your son!”

“When it pushes me it's yours.”

“Is that a way to talk to your own flesh and blood?”

“If it makes me cold and ill, yes.”

“I can always heal you.”

“You can't do that every day of your life.”

“I can smack your bruised ass alright! Do you need me to massage you there?”

His smile grew lustful. “I guess I could use a hand but my front is sorer than my rear.”

She chuckled. “I thought you were tired.”

“I am, but I could postpone my sleep. A husband never tires of his wife.”

“I am pregnant.”

“I am tired.”

“You aren't.”

“I am.”

“Then I'll push you. Don't worry, though, the carpet is soft and thick.”

“I noticed that.” he frowned, serious again. “Is that new?”

She nodded. “That and more. I healed a woman a few weeks ago and received from her merchant husband this carpet as payment. He loved his wife dearly.” she chuckled. “Ashstar can barely help herself sleeping on it when the sun lights it. Her kittens looks like orange clouds when they sleep nearby.”

His brows creased. “A cat?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God, how long have I been gone? What else could be new?”

“Nothing much. I helped overseeing the work on your keep, healed a few women, made a new tapestry with Rosamund and my friends Zinat, Leila and Yasmin, and Fatma helped me setting a room for our child. I also am being taught of pregnancy and the arts of taking care of babies and children by the old Amal, the matriarch of the Saracens down the valley. I also sold mead and honey to some merchant and have swollen our chests.”

Roland gave a low whistle. “Dear God. How long have I been gone!”

She grew aloof and sad. “I lost count.”

He frowned and gestured at her belly. “How long have you known?”

“A few months.” she swallowed a sob. “The day after you left. Amal told me that then, it had been at least three months or more. Then I waited two weeks, then two months, then three, then four – Or so I think.”

“Dear Lord.” he blankly stared ahead. “If I have never come back... The child... If I have been away longer...” he buried his face in his hands. “Dear Lord! Had I missed it I would have cursed myself.”

She shrugged her bitterness and faint resentment away. “You're here, now. That's all that matters I guess.”

“Yet you are angry with me.”

“I guess.” she shrugged. “You were gone for months and I was pregnant. You better make up for that.”

“I hope I can, but I beg of you, restrain your anger. There is no need for your hard blows and I suffered too many already. I get that you have been through a lot but trust me when I say I wish I had come back earlier. You are the mother of my child, not some common whore I could get rid of. For the sake of our first born, please do not tear us apart.”

Ide shed a tear, her throat a big doleful knot, a scream caged inside at the thought of what she hid from him. She was far worse, hiding her miscarrying their firstborn, than him not being able to send word to her and yet coming back in the middle of the night as though he could not wait. She turned away. “I am sorry.” she whispered.

Roland nodded. “I am going to be a father.” he whispered. “Ide, I am going to be a father.”

She groaned and turned to him. “Don't let yourself carried away so soon.”

“But I am going to be a father.” he leaned forward to kiss her, his lips soft and warm against hers. “I love you.”

“What are the odds? I love you too.” she yawned. “Tomorrow you must tell me of your feats and deeds.”

“Tired?”

“Exhausted.” she pat her belly. “You have no idea how tiresome pregnancy is.”

He shrugged. “I needed sleep anyway.” he kissed her cheek. “I truly missed you.”

Ide smiled. “Welcome home.”

 

They strolled down the fortress the next day, beginning with a walk in the patio and then in the gardens, where Ide showed Roland her hives, her prosperous bees, the dais she had had built to set to work in the open with her maids and friends, the new arrangements to the house, the overseeing of the keep, the caravansary and the extension she wished to install, the vineyard, the valley and everything that was Roland's fief. She wanted him reacquainted with his lands as quickly as possible for him to be able to lord it easier after his return. She knew he would need some time to re adapt to ruling an estate, but she was in no hurry, for their chests swelled with riches as much as Ide's belly did with a new life.

For now, he greeted tenants, servants, merchants, ate with Stephen and Rosamund and played with their children, talked even to the Saracens down the fortress and those in the valley, thanking Amal for her kindness with a gift in silver and his most grateful sentiments and was handed by Ide, who ran over stalls selling fruits eagerly buying oranges and pomegranates, a cup of fresh water that tasted a faint lemon flavor; a new drink of hers she wanted him to approve – which he did.

The next few days were much alike, him riding to and fro, across his lands to ensure his estate was being kept, talking, devising, training, welcoming his troops back from Jerusalem, writing to the king, and Ide, resting, weaving, devising whether or not she could make wine and trying to get someone to teach her that kind of brew, chatting, learning and mostly sleeping, playing with her cat and kitten on the soft carpet on which she delighted often, basked in sunlight. She received approving eyes from Fatma at her growing idleness and frowns of disapproval when she transgressed some of Amal's rules.

One day she received a visit from Asma who told her she would be coming everyday with Yasmin and Zinat to oversee that last part of her pregnancy. As always, the woman was cold and hardly spoke a word to Roland, let alone gave approving looks, choosing instead to blatantly ignore him, glare and glower at him. She was all scorn and Roland almost wanted to cast her out. Only Ide's beseeching him to let her have this allowed her to remain there. Whatever Asma's qualms with them, Ide felt they must be just, and besides, she had enough fondness from Amal and her granddaughters.

Yet still, amidst the return of a mild bliss, Roland kept to himself most of what he was compelled to do at war although he spent a great deal of his time with his wife sharing his burden, talking about the whores there, the men, the violence and his nightmares, not to forget those same old demons dancing, always dancing.

However what he kept, it was nothing to Ide's secrecy. She kept their first child from him, a bitter memory that still burned like a sizzling knife. At least with her first, the father had left her, now she was married to the father of the second. It was harder even because she was pregnant and he was so full of hope, oblivious to the gaunt truth of her broken womb. She almost trusted that this time would be the right, though, for she had never reached this stage before and when she had asked Amal about her former miscarriages, the elderling told her of young age and ale as destroyers.

He prayed to God for their child and its health, but Ide, having none to pray spent it twisting the pendant she kept wearing in her hand. She was convinced it was Samar's goddess, it counted as prayer enough wearing the talisman.

In any case, the weight of secrecy was so heavy on her shoulders that she gladly shared it with her friends, specifically asking them to keep it from Roland, which, on second thought seemed to her as unfair since it was her burden to carry and imposing it on others would do them ill, and then, Ide hated herself for the pain she brought upon others all because of her own failings. She hated herself for killing her babes, hated herself keeping it from a Roland that gushed every time he spoke the words 'first-born', hated herself for drinking and folly, hated herself for her weakness and her lack of trust.

A frown from Fatma though, was enough for her to set herself right. The woman was a hopeful one, stiff as a tree, comforting and harsh. Ide liked her. She did her good.

They had a talk one night, basked in moonlight, about names and Roland resolved that were it a boy he would name it and if it were a girl she would. Ide bit her lips, wondering what name he would have given the half-made one she buried in the forest; her own form of torture, her misdeeds her own hell.

Consumed by guilt and fear, she almost sank, if it weren't for Zinat's fire, Yasmin's kindness and Roland's presence.

 

He came back home, one other day, whacked, sweating from a day overseeing his estate and a training session with his troops and lay down on the soft carpet with a groan of exhaustion. Ide brought him some pastries and some tea Zinat had made. She had spent her day with them devising outside while she tended her hives, weaving, chatting, taking care of their children together and Rosamund had joined them in need for some company. It had been a good day. The sun was not flaring like in Summer but still, the temperature was soft enough to spend an afternoon outside.

Roland drank what she gave him and she gently stroked his beard. It was getting long. He ought to trim it fast before Winter came for good.

“How was your day? Do you wish to bathe?” she asked.

He grinned. “Will you come with me if I do?” he drew her on his lap, roamed her thigh, caressed her ass. “I ache for you.”

She could feel it. She gave a sultry smile, dug her fingers deep into his hair, drawing his face to hers, grazing his lips with her own. “Are you so easily tempted, my lord?”

Roland’s cheeks reddened. “A husband is tempted by his wife. That is all.”

Ide shook her head. “No. Good husbands are tempted by their wives.” she straddled him. “Unfaithful ones are just waiting for a breach in their willpower to lay with another.” she gently kissed his lips. “You are a good husband. A strong one.”

He gave another smile, stroking her hair. “You are worth it.” Ide buried her face in his neck and he felt her smile. He coiled his arms gentler around her. “I still can’t believe you love me still after everything I did to you. You are a formidable wife. I guess there is nothing I treasure more than you and your opinion.”

Ide drew back and locked her eyes to his. “I am still mad at you.” she said. “But I cannot hate you. I know you’ll make it up. Besides, I am so happy here I might as well forget about resentment.”

Roland cupped her face and trailed kisses down her neck, groaning his devotion away. Ide moaned under each of his touch, but she felt him too troubled to let him go on. If they bathed together, he wouldn’t last long and they would have to break off their ecstasy.

“There is something lingering on your mind.” she said.

“Oh?” his voice was muffled by her breasts. “How would you know?”

She shrugged. “I know you, that is all.”

Roland drew back once again and lay against the pillows with a frustrated groan. “My wife. You do know me too well. It feels like you are reading my mind.”

She toyed with strands of his hair, her head resting on his chest. She could feel him breathing, his heart thumping, his arousal but also his concern. “That is because I love you.” as she said those words, she felt his heart beat faster. She chuckled, imagining his soft eyes suddenly wet. “Also, you should stop call me a witch.” her voice a hard edge on it. “What's on your mind?”

He sighed. “Stephen, Yusef and I talked today about building a wall around the domain.” he said, giving his voice a change of tone. “And the caravansary needs a family to take care of it. Yusef is already far too busy watching over my estate and Stephen is too, enforcing law all around. Moreover, with all the frequent invasions from the Turks and the Arabs, I fear for the safety of my people, yours, our child to be… We need to protect us all. I already devised with Stephen. I shall build a first wall around the hill, in a way no man can take it; encircling the caravansary, the houses of my knights, the stables, the ovens, the granaries, and then I shall build a wall around our house, our garden, the weaponry. Naturally the vineyard shall stay out of it. I asked the best architects of Damas to come and see that it is done.”

Ide frowned. “What about the camp down in the valley? It will be too long for them to come and enter at the gate. Can’t your first wall reach to them? Can’t you build something there for them to keep? The vineyard, the oasis must be kept.”

He shook his head. “No. It would be too dangerous. It would take too much time walking the entire wall. They’ll have to come and seek shelter here as soon as the horn blows.” he took her hand, his voice grew softer. “I know how much you care about them, but I cannot be a hawk and watch over the whole world.”

Ide nodded. “I understand. Although I would advise you to have a well built there. They need water as much as you need their support.”

“They’re not Christian.”

“I am not either and I am your wife.”

He sighed. “Fine! I’ll have another wall built there too.”

“You know what would be even better? Secret passages to the castle.”

“No. If enemies find them, then we’re fucked.” he groaned. “I still need to manage the caravansary though.”

Ide roamed his chest with her hand. “I have an idea.”

“What is it?” Roland frowned.

“Amal’s son lost his entire flock lately, stolen, killed, wolfed; Now his own son has nothing, no work to do, nothing to sustain his family. Zinat and him are quite left out at the camp. Why don’t you offer him that opportunity?”

Roland groaned. “Ide, they are not Christian, I can’t...”

“Of course you can! Look, I am not telling you to give them political role. This is your lands. Your soldiers are Christian, yes, but it doesn’t mean you have to discard people that lived here since the dawn of time from responsibility. Faruk is a responsible man, seeking knowledge and a place of his own. Zinat told me about his ability to make friends, of his gift to welcome people, to his skills with different tongues. Faruk is a clever and witty man. If you let him he’ll be a great asset to your power here. By giving them something, by connecting them to your estate you make them a part of it - a part they are likely to defend when circumstances need it.” she patted his chest. “Jerusalem doesn’t have to rule everything.”

Roland sighed. “If I appoint him, my men will likely hate me.”

Ide brushed it off. “You’ll manage. If it comes to this I’ll pull a Samar on them and curse them all.”

Roland suddenly gave a sharp breath, tensed, while his heart began to ram in his chest, his breathing cut. “I don’t want anything to happen to you or our child that is yet to come, that is all.” he whined and pressed his palms on his eyes. “If they come after you, I don’t know if I could…” he panted.

Ide leaned to his face and gently kissed his lips. He seemed to relax at her touch. “We survived worse. I know I did. What they could do to me will never be worse than what I did to myself, even if I fear it.” she rolled over. “Sometimes I think it would be better if women lorded over this world. We would spend afternoons weaving, talking, devising how not to wage war while battling through wits. Samar once said there was no middle ground with us women. I think it is true, but we are at least civilized enough not to meddle in blood and cruelty. I believe that our weapons would be influence and alliance, after all, that is what being a woman is all about.”

“You certainly went a long way to forge alliance with the people here. Zinat, Rosamund, Fatma, Yasmin, Amal… You forged most precious alliances and they seem based on friendship and mutual understanding. I am glad to have you as a wife. You are perhaps my greatest asset here.”

Ide blushed. “I am happy I am useful.”

“You aren’t useful. You’re indispensable.”

Ide laughed. “Wait to taste my wine! I’ll make your estate twice richer!”

Roland returned the smile and kissed her palm. “I have no doubt about that. I trust your craft as much as I trust you.”

“Good.” she rolled back to him and kissed his cheek. “Promise me to think it through. Faruk’s new position might strengthen your rule here.”

“I can't promise you anything.”

“Tell me you'll think about it still.”

“Perhaps.” he shrugged.

Ide suddenly frowned in pain. Roland expressed concern and reached to her.

“Are you alright?”

Ide groaned. “I can bear this. I just want it to be over soon.”

He stirred uncomfortably on the carpet. “I am sorry.”

“Why? Did you do something wrong?” thinking she did far worse.

“I know how painful it was for you being alone for such a long time of your pregnancy. I am sorry I wasn't there for you. I wish I was there to relish a bit more this time with you.”

She shrugged. “What is done is done. There will be other children, hopefully, and hopefully your king won't summon you this time.”

“It would be one great coincidence if he summoned me for every child you are expecting.”

Ide roamed her swollen belly. “It is so large though, I wonder if everything is fine.”

Roland reached for her hand. “It will. I know it will.”

“Let's hope your prayers were heard.” her voice grew softer, sadder. “Let's hope we all live in the end.”

He kissed her forehead. “We will. Everything will turn out to be fine in the end. Our child will live and you will live to scold it often.”

“Well if it is your child, I ought to watch it closely.” she grumbled.

Roland laughed. “Are you still upset at me trying to escape your hut?”

“Messing my work.” Ide groaned. “Your child better take after me on that!”

“Let us see first, shall we?”

Ide's hand lingered over her little talisman. “Yes.” she breathed, hoping nevertheless that her fears were just fears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY HE IS BACK!!!!


	6. 6

Over the next few months Roland received architects from Damascus, nobles from Edesse and a few envoys from the king of Jerusalem, as well as the remaining of his troops. He endeavored to resume training all the while devising with Stephen over the state of law in his estate, appointing Saracens to specific positions all the while managing not to offend his Christian people. It was a thin and perilous line to walk on but Ide insisted that some positions be handled to people who knew the land. She expressly told him that no one would make it prosper but those who knew it. Roland could hardly about that and was relieved to see that his tenants could manage well enough so that he spent little time overseeing it, Ide not hesitating to take this charge. She counted the stocks well and sold honey, ale, mead and other goods to merchants who would venture to Italy and Frankia even.

She was spending more time alone in the house, now, and had set her Winter quarters in a remote place of the wide house, over the pantry, overseeing the gardens and the valley, so that she took pleasure in seeing the sun set every evening. She could hardly go on long walks and instead invited both friends and tenants, setting matters with them all the while feeding them. She would gain nothing with mistrust, as Asma often reminded her.

She now spent most of her time with her Saracen friends. Zinat gave her many thanks over Faruk's new positions, though Amal had been saddened by her granddaughter's absence.

Ide had asked a wine-maker to come to her once, between two – or so – lessons from Amal who, like Ide, had trouble walking long distances – though it was due, on her part, because of old age. She had asked him lessons on how to make wine and found the difference with brewing quite distressing, though she was undeterred by the hardship and looked forward to learn. She was reluctant, however, when the man had told her of new buildings. It would cost money and between the keep and the walls Roland wanted to build, Ide doubted he would agree. She resolved not to tell him and pay the expenses herself with the money she would gain with her honey and her skills. She was adamant not to use anything that was Roland's – though everything she owned, he had a right to now that they were married.

Those were peaceful months dotted with a few nights when Ide tried to seduce her husband into having sex, though he would not do, deeming it ungodly to lay with his wife while her condition was sacred, vowing not to bed her until their child would be several months old. He almost yielded, one night, and was lucky enough that she was too tired to pursue it any further. Roland knew this could be avoided if he slept in another room like a proper Christian husband but a night away from her arms was a cold one and he still couldn't sleep at night without her to hum him to sleep.

He took a great pleasure in seeing her try to seduce him, though. He faltered often and was reminded of how much he loved the whole of her and gave her a chaste kiss on the lips, his hands seldom wandering lower than her swollen belly.

He still insisted on sending for Christian midwives but Ide was firm and resolute in her choices; she had her women and she trusted them more than Christian women, knowing damn well what they would think of her, afraid they might take the child and burn it under the claims that it was indeed the devil.

What grew to terrify her even more was how she would feed her child. She was worried about the pain, worried she would not feed it right, worried it might choke on her breasts, worried that no milk would come, worried about how long she would have to feed it. It churned around her for such a long time she asked for guidance on a sunny day in the patio when in company of Rosamund, Zinat and Yasmin.

“My mother says it hurt a little bit, but it was nothing she couldn't bear.” said Zinat.

“Aunt Selima said it was so unbearable she had a slave to feed her children.” added Yasmin.

“Yes, but Grandmother said it was nothing so painful.”

Rosamund gave a soft smile and a soft hand on Ide's. “Why don't you get a wet-nurse. I know I did for most of my children. The first time I tried breastfeeding, I was in agony. Perhaps this will ease your concern.”

Ide nodded, a faint smile on her face. “I want to do it. I never could, so I want to do it. If I let another woman feed my children I will not feel like a mother to it but still I am worried.”

Rosamund shrugged. “Get one just in case. If it doesn't hurt as bad as you thought, then let her stay so that her children and yours are playmates. She could take care of your child when you are too busy overseeing your husband's estate.”

Ide nodded and gulped. “Still, I am afraid.”

“I know.” Rosamund's voice was soft and patient. “I was terrified when I first got pregnant, but I had help from my mother, my cousin, my sisters.” Ide scoffed. “I know it is not the same for you. I know of what happened to your family but you have many women to rely on. If you have any doubt, come to my house, if you fear, ask around and you will see your friends coming with smart answers. You may not have sisters around here but you have sisterhood to rely on.”

“You are not alone.” Yasmin gently pat Ide's hand. “We can help you.”

“Sometimes I fear that I owe you too much.” Ide chuckled.

“You do.” said Zinat. “But friendship is not for sale.”

“I ought to make you my women, now.” Ide pondered.

“Many would not see that proper.” Rosamund said.

“Many are not Christians.” Ide retorted.

“That's true enough I'll reckon.”

“Oh well,” Ide shrugged. “First, let's survive childbirth.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ide is almost due. Next part will be childbirth! Y'all better stay tuned!


	7. 7

Roland was pacing to and fro in front of the wooden door, wincing at every of Ide's screams of pain. There came another one. Roland kept his eyes closed shut, holding a sharp breath, resisting the urge to barge in and beg for her pain to stop. It wasn't proper for him to be inside but at the moment he was far too anxious to worry about proper anymore. All he knew was that his wife was in pain behind this door, and that she was in unmeasurable pain delivering his child. The thought alone was agony.

It had all begun a few hours ago, when Ide had suddenly bent and twisted on the thick carpet, wincing and whimpering about being in pain – or so was Roland told. She had been weaving and chatting with her friends before her water broke and Zinat had been running to Roland to inform him of it.

Like some twist of fate, or fortunate jest, Rosamund had hers broke a few moments later and she had been led to her own room where she was assisted by Christian midwives – those Roland initially wanted to assist Ide. He could hear Stephen pace to and fro downstairs, probably as nervous as he currently was, though perhaps not so afraid, since Stephen had had many children beforehand, while Roland was all new to this – at least, new to his wife giving birth.

Roland made a mental note to go and see him and drink with him when his servants would have finished setting up a room between the two chambers.

As soon as her waters had broken, Roland had called on to the midwives and with the advantage of Ide's condition, had tried to have her accept to be assisted by Christians, but Ide had firmly refused, seething, her eyes dark and unforgiving. Roland had swallowed his pride and let her have this and she had called on Saracen midwives with the help of Yasmin and Fatma while Zinat stayed with her. Her orders had been carried down the valley and a horde of veiled women had hurried to Ide's bedside, closed the door shut and instructed Roland to wait patiently.

Another scream ran through the door and Roland bit his lips, leaning against the door, hands joined in prayer. “Lord almighty, dear God, Christ and Holy Mary, I am begging of you; please ease my wife through the pain, help me accept what she is going through, give me strength for her. Please, please please please do not let her die. Please, may my child be alive and not a stillborn. I know I have no right to ask you this, but my wife is deserving of your favors. I am begging of you: give her this. Give her a healthy babe.”

As an answer, all he could hear was Ide's groans and her midwives' encouragements.

Roland shivered.

He was told the room was ready and went to fetch Stephen and both sat down, while some fine wine was poured and both men, nervously fidgeting tried to overcome their wives' battle.

 

“Keep walking, dear. Keep walking. It's not time yet.” Asma gently said.

Her voice was as smooth as her face and every sign of hatred seemed to have momentarily vanished. She guided Ide around her room while Fatma and Zinat were preparing the bed and the hot water for when the baby would come out. Ide was to kneel on the cloth-covered carpet and deliver there, leaning on her bed.

Ide was hot, sweating, crying snot and whimpering. Even so close to delivery she was afraid something would go wrong. All the certainty she had built over the last few months was suddenly crushed as every bad outcome ran through her mind.

And now Asma showed kindness to her and Ide was at loss with all of this. “I want this to be over! I want it to be over!” she wheezed.

“I know, I know.” Asma gently pushed back her hair.

Ide's eyes opened wide and a shiver ran down her spine. “Am I dead?”

Asma shook her head and frowned. “Why would you say that?”

“You're nice to me – Ow!” she bent, clutching her belly.

Asma's frown deepened. “Don't get used to it. Now's a special occasion.”

Ide chuckled. “Now, there's the Asma I know.”

Asma grinned. “When giving birth, we women are the same. This is a battle I once fought, one that my daughters will fight soon enough. There is no divide there.”

Ide gave her a smile glistening with tears. “Thank you.” she mouthed.

Asma nodded in acknowledgment and led her round her room.

Ide screamed once more. “Is it time yet?” she groaned.

Fatma hurried beneath her skirt and squinted. “Just a few more minutes. You are almost ready.”

“It has been - Ow! - hours!”

“Consider yourself happy. I know women who went through this for days!” Asma said.

Zinat frowned. “Is it true?” she mouthed.

“No, but she doesn't have to know that.” Asma whispered.

“I heard that.” Ide said grumpily. It suddenly occurred to her that the first words her child would hear would be Saracen words. Perhaps that way it would be able to hear everyone on its lands. Ide took a bit of pride at that.

“Drink this. It'll ease you up.” said Yasmin giving Ide a warm cup of herbal tea.

Ide drank it and walked round the room some more while conversing with Asma as well as she could given her wails and pangs. Asma taught her how to breathe properly, and Ide clung to her little talisman, praying, for once, but praying for Samar, asking her, wherever she was, for her blessing and for some of her strength. She still was godless but she refuse to acknowledge that death was the final end of someone. If that someone had been loved, there still was hope.

She tried not to linger on the thought of death. Her fears still hovered over it and she had to be brave.

Another hour went by, interspersed with pangs and squalls and gales of pain, each stronger than the other. Fatma checked once again if she was ready and helped her kneel by her bedside. She quickly beckoned Asma by her side while Zinat, Yasmin and the other girls brought beverages to ease Ide's pain and another set of clothes, as well as some ungent for her back.

“Be ready to push.” Asma softly said.

Ide nodded, swallowing her fears, readying herself for the upcoming battle.

“It's time.” Fatma's voice ran loud inside the room. “Push, Ide!”

A strong pang made her feel like her legs were being ripped off her body and Ide groaned, bit her bedsheets and did as she was told; pushed.

“Good girl,” Asma's hand was wiping her sweaty forehead. “Are you ready to do it again?”

Ide nodded. Another pang, another push.

“Come on! Push, Ide! Push that baby out! Do it, do it, do it! Push it out! Push it out!” Asma's voice almost became a spell, the only sounds Ide could hear.

She focused on that voice. The pain made her sweat, made her weep. She pushed and bit the cloth harder, covering it with cries and screams. It felt as though her lower body was being torn apart.

“Push! Breathe! Push!” Asma was rubbing her back. “You can do it, Ide. Focus on my voice. Follow my voice. Push.”

Another pang, another push. Ide felt out of breath, her entire body shaking from pain, set ablaze. She gave a loud cry.

“I see the head, Ide. Push again, come on Ide. You're almost done.”

Ide's heart was hammering in her ribcage. A pang rattled her knees and she almost crumbled down had it not been for her strong grasp on her bedsheets. Her breath grew wheezing, her throat cold, tasting of blood and bile. She gave a sharp breath and eyes firmly shut, teeth clenched, gritty and red she pushed harder, feeling the babe being expelled out of her.

“Almost done. Almost done. You're a good girl, Ide, now come on, push again. Push again my dear.”

Ide roared and pushed as she was told to and felt it fall into Fatma's arms all at once. There was silence for an agonizing few seconds, Ide blanched, heart still hammering, breath cut, all red and soaked, terrified that it be a stillborn.

Then a scream, small, almost wild. A tiny scream of a healthy baby.

Ide turned her head, a dazzling smile stretched on her face, exhausted, yet deliriously happy. The babe was alive. It was alive and it seemed it was well. Ide's heart was still hammering and she felt herself dizzy, resolving never to do such thing as delivery until a few years later, but she smiled.

Fatma turned to her and cut the cord. She was bearing a smile. “It is a healthy girl.” she said, cooing at the baby. “She's got a strong grip already.” the babe was holding tight on Fatma's hand and she handed her to Zinat and Yasmin who washed her and wrapped her in multiple layers of clothing.

Ide panted. “Is she well? Can I see her?”

“Soon. You'll have to feed her. For now, let us clean you up.” Asma pulled Ide's skirt up and froze.

She stood up and strode to Fatma, whispering so low that Ide couldn't hear them. She frowned and saw their faces locked on hers with worried glances.

Her heart suddenly sank, her fears churning around. “What is it?” she croaked, her words barely a whisper. “What is it?” she could almost feel the ground opening to swallow her, her ears ringing and blood chilling.

Asma beckoned another girl to follow her and she took back her place by Ide's side.

“Be ready to push again.”

 

Roland nibbled on a baklava, while Stephen nervously sipped his wine. There was silence in the house, a silence only broken by screams upstairs and screams downstairs. Neither desired to speak but neither desired to remain silent.

“Does it get easier with time?” Roland croaked.

“No.” Stephen whispered. “I think it becomes more difficult. Really, it's the wait that is unbearable.”

“Tell me about that.”

Stephen sighed. “Rosamund wasn't due until another few weeks. It worries me, I am not going to lie here.”

“It seems like our children worked it out on their own accord.” Roland chuckled. “What do you wish it be?”

“A daughter. I have had enough of boys. All they can seem to do is fighting and punching each other. Poor Rosamund. I almost feel bad not relieving her of her sons.”

Roland frowned. “You love your sons.”

“I do. But they can be a lot to deal with, especially at a young age. I think I'll have Eustache being trained as a knight soon. I'll have him change teacher too. I want him a learned man to become sheriff after me.” he sighed. “I am more worried about Tancrède. That boy is too angry. I need to find something fit for him.”

“How about I train him as a knight as well?” Stephen went agape. “Don't worry, nothing serious, just hitting the pole with a wooden sword.”

Stephen's shoulders seemed to be released of a burden for a moment. “That seems fitting indeed. I was afraid you would have him trained in the same fashion as Eustache. I know they are close but still, two years can make a lot of difference when it comes to strength.”

Roland shrugged. “I'll have him run too if it means that you and Rosamund will have some time to yourselves.”

Stephen gave another relieved sigh. “Oh Thank God! Thank you!”

“What about Robert?” Roland chuckled.

“He's calm. Except, of course, when his brothers drag him into their adventures. Then, he is the worst. I love my children, Roland, but being a father – especially when they are young – is exhausting!”

“Well this does not bode well.”

Stephen waved his hands around. “Oh no, don't worry. It's exhausting but you'll get a grip around fatherhood soon enough and once you do, it becomes easier.”

Roland suddenly blanched. “Shit.” he croaked.

“What?”

“I am going to be a father. What if I fare bad?” his heart suddenly began to pound in his chest, fear crushing even to his anxious mood, a boulder cutting his breath. “What if I make both my wife and child unhappy?” the thought alone was torture.

“Ide? Be more unhappy than what she already is? Come on!”

Roland closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stephen.” a warning. “Ide can be more unhappy. Have I not told you about when I found her in the snow, ready to die?” he shuddered. “Perhaps I ought to remind you of what's at stakes for my wife.”

“I did not know about that.”

Roland gave a faint grin. “That is because she has never been happier since I've known her. She smiles more, she laughs more, she drinks less and wallows less.”

“Or maybe she has grown better at hiding it.”

A cold shiver ran down Roland's spine. His eyes grew distant. “I try not to think about it. I don't want – You have no idea the distress it was seeing the woman I love wounded, bruised, almost dead amidst a charred ground. It was looking at a ghost. It felt like she died.” he gave a sharp breath at the weight of Ide's misery on his chest. “I don't want that again. I don't want her to suffer.” she screamed upstairs, painfully, harshly. He gulped. “At least not like that. She is bringing up my child. I want to be good to them for this gift. God knows I am far from deserving of it.”

“Why would you think that?”

Roland looked over the gate. There were things that he could only share with Ide, things he could only share with his men and the warriors in Jerusalem. There were things he could not tell Stephen, even if he had known him the longest.

Roland sighed. “Never mind.”

The weight on his chest grew heavier at the thought of fatherhood and no word of Stephen's would be able to ease it. He was scared. He was scared for him, for his child, of change; irremediably coming to break something and build something else instead. Roland gagged, nervous as he was, that some harm had befallen Ide who had stopped screaming.

He was a father.

“What do you think it is?” he croaked.

“A baby.”

Roland rolled his eyes. “I know that.”

“What do you wish it were?”

His eyes grew wide. “I don't know.”

A lad was strolling nearby and Roland swiftly stood up and asked him to fetch the priest and Holy Water to christen his baby as soon as it was possible. He would see that it would be named, envisioning every ill outcome. Should his child need a grave, he would be sure that it had a name. He knew Ide wouldn't want her children baptized but at the moment he did what he thought best for both. They could always forsake their faith when they were older.

“Do you have an idea for your child's name?” Roland asked as he sat back near Stephen.

“Rosamund wants to name it Mathilda were it a girl and I want to call it William were it a boy. You?”

“Ide has thought about it. I was so busy I did not ask.”

“I should like our children being friends.”

Roland grinned. “If you had a son and I too they would be friends for sure.”

“We could always marry them were it otherwise.”

Roland laughed. “If I have a daughter she shall marry your son! If I have a son he'll be bound to other arms.”

“If I had a daughter, maybe will she be an abbess.” Stephen pondered, sipping his wine. “I would see that she is sent to Jerusalem.”

“I would keep my children close to me and let them run free. I know of oaths and honor and those are heavy burdens on children.” Roland sighed, laying on the carpet. “I'll have a teacher come here and I'll have my children artful and shrewd, well-read and learned. I'll have them versed in the art of administration. Ide can always teach them her own craft. She'll have to patch their wounds at first, though.”

“If they get your temper she may be far too busy to catch a glimpse of you.”

“I wasn't that reckless, was I?” Roland squinted.

“Remember when you were chased by that wild goose? When you annoyed puppies till they bit you? Remember when you fell off a wall? Roland, the constant question surrounding you is how you manage to stay alive.”

Roland chuckled at the memories. His smile died on his lips as he recalled the forest days, when he was agonizing between life and death and Ide nearly killed herself healing him back to life. “I hope my children won't inherit my ill luck.” he grimly said.

“With any luck, they will take after Ide.”

“With any luck they will be better than their parents. That is all the good I wish them.”

A young Saracen woman Roland knew to be Leila ran through the patio's threshold, a beaming smile on her face, her brows creased with concern. Roland instantly stood up, his toothy grin responding to hers, his heart pounding against his ribcage, blissful in the news she knew Leila was to bring him. A faint fear grew when he noticed she carried no child with her. What if – he couldn't dare thinking about it.

“Well?” his voice was hoarse and pressing.

“It is a healthy girl, my lord.” said Leila, wiping her hands.

Roland staggered, dizzy with bliss. “A daughter. I am the father of a daughter. A healthy daughter.” he laughed. “A daughter.” he suddenly frowned. “Ide?”

“She is well. She -” she nervously fidgeted about.

“Why can't I go and see her? Why not present my daughter to me?” Roland's breath grew heavier.

“Something arose. You may want to wait until the second one is out.”

Roland coughed. “The second one?” his eyes were at their widest. “There are two – I – How?”

“It sometimes happen that a woman expects twins. Ide has battled for that daughter and she may battle harder for the other one. For now, wait here. We do not want you to come in until she has delivered the other one.”

A loud scream rang upstairs. Louder, filled with more desperation, weakening at the edge.

Roland whimpered. “Can't I?”

“No. What happens there is women's business. Wait here until all of this is done.” she turned and walked away.

Roland sank back on his arse, blankly drinking his wine. His worry churned around him and it seemed the sky was crushing him body and soul. If Ide didn't survive this he would never recover. If she died then he himself was cursed. He couldn't lose everyone he loved to the desert. He couldn't sacrifice to his children, to his wife to it.

He whined and gripped his hair.

A soft hand landed on his shoulder. “She will do fine.” Stephen's voice was calm. “Didn't you say she survived worse? Your wife is a strong one. All will be well.”

Roland pressed his eyes close and worried his teeth on his lower lip. “All will be well.” a prayer.

 

“Come on, Ide. Push.” Asma's voice had gotten back its entrancing tone.

Ide wheezed, cheeks red and streaked with tears, face distorted with pain, dizzy with headache and exhaustion. “I can't. I can't.” she begged.

“It went so well for your daughter. Now push.” Asma kept stroking her hair and rubbing her back. She had smeared a special ointment to release all the tensions of her body, but Ide remained stiffly clinging to her bed.

“I can't – I can't breathe.” Ide sobbed.

It felt as though her whole body had been set aflame. Her heart seemed to break her ribcage while a crushing pain in her chest made it heave like a heavy sea. She was tossed around by gales of pain and cutting pangs on her lower belly. She was exhausted and felt the room dance around, felt the strings tying her down to reality falter and sank in an abyss of nothingness. She couldn't do it.

In her mind she saw Samar, saw her mother, her sisters, saw herself. A chorus rose from their voice as a multitude chanted along with Asma's voice, “Push! Push! Let go and push!”

Her throat was on fire, she almost tasted blood. Her heart seemed to stop short and a low growl echoed in the room.

The growl grew louder, the pain agonizing.

“Push Ide! Push! Come on my child, push it! Breathe! Release!”

The growl turned roar and Ide pushed. She couldn't let it die. Not again. She would not sacrifice a single child of hers! Not anymore! She would push and it would come out alive and healthy or she would die with it!

She bit her lips almost to blood and released everything. Her feral voice went high to the ceiling, low to the patio.

“You're doing so good. Keep going Ide, keep pushing. Come on.”

She felt as though she was being quartered and set on fire all at once but she kept pushing. It would not die! It would _not_ die! She would not die! She would push it out even if it was the last thing she would do! She would _not_ bury another one under an oak tree! That time was gone! It would come out and it would come out good!

Her roaring grew louder if ever that was possible and she gave a push that felt like death-maddening.

“I see the head. You're doing great, you're doing great. Come on, you're almost through.”

“I can't.” she wheezed.

“You can!”

“I can! I can!” she panted, all red and sweat-soaked. “Come - out!” she gritted.

She roared again and Asma gently rubbed her back while the girl whispered some sweet word to Ide.

She was all hot, red, wheezing, roaring, sweat, tears and saliva. She clung to her bedsheets and trashed her gown, and she pushed and pushed and pushed until it felt like her whole body was on the brink of explosion, all weak and feeble.

She was all screams now, entranced by Asma's voice. She thought she heard her say the head had come out and she pushed again and again, each time giving sharp breath as though her lungs would never fill up. She heard Asma keep chanting and felt it slowly being brought out of her body and she kept going. She would push it out even if it killed her!

At last, after a final desperate push, the baby was out, caught by Asma's expert hand. The cord was cut and Ide lolled on the floor, exhausted, panting, her heart still pounding in her chest, her limbs numb of everything.

“Let me see.” she weakly asked. “Is it alive?”

Asma gave a smile. “Yes. You did good, Ide.”

Ide chuckled weakly and closed her eyes. Her womb was still doleful and she longed for sleep but she wanted to see her baby.

A soft and warm thing was set into her arms; a baby wrapped in linens.

“It's a boy.” Yasmin said with tenderness.

Ide gave a sigh and looked over her son with tenderness, toying with his little fingers. “Hello little one.” she cooed. “Where's my daughter?”

Fatma stepped forward with the girl in her arms and gave her to Ide, leaning on her bed. She gave a breath of relief and release.

“Have you thought of a name for both?” asked Zinat.

Ide nodded and gulped. “Emma for the girl and William for the boy. William, after Roland's father.”

“We'll tell him. Now rest.” Asma said, taking both her children from Ide, cleaning her, dressing her with clean sheets and putting her to bed.

Ide was afraid at first to let go of her children but no sooner was she in the bed than she felt the room dance again around her and sank into sleep, at the apex of exhaustion.

 

Roland had waited enough. He barged into the room to find all the midwives busy cleaning sheets and two babies being fed by two women. His sudden entrance was welcomed with gasps of fear and a few glowers. At first he wanted to see his children but his eyes frantically searched through he room for Ide and his blood iced in his veins when he saw her, pale and still on their bed.

It suddenly felt as though a boulder had found its way on his chest and he could hardly breathe.

“Ide.” a horrified whisper.

He ran by her side, eyes wetting with tears, heart sunken and clasped his hands around hers with a horrified urgency. He gently stroked her hair and kissed her cheek.

Fatma coughed as to get his attention. “She's just sleeping.”

Roland reddened with shame. “Oh.”

Asma chuckled. “She was brave.”

He smiled. “I know she was.”

“You have a daughter and a son.” Asma's voice was empty of any fondness.

Roland stood up and faltered. A son. He had a son. A son to train and a son to inherit. “A son? I – I have a son?”

“So it would seem.” Asma motioned to the two babies. “Ide has already given them names.”

Roland frowned. “They can't have names until they are baptized.” he snapped his fingers to the lad who always followed him and asked him to fetch the priest downstairs.

Asma's frown grew colder. “She named them still. Baptize them all you want but you'll have to abide by Ide's names.”

“What are those names?”

“The girl is Emma and the boy, Ide said she wanted him to have your father's name; William.” Fatma said before Asma jumped at Roland's throat.

Roland gasped and a beaming smile spread on his lips. “She did?”

Fatma shrugged. “She did.”

“I can't stay here any longer.” Asma seethed. She snapped her fingers, “Leila, Ayla, Aicha, we're going. Zinat and Yasmin can stay if they want but I would rather you come back as soon as possible.”

She deliberately walked into Roland, slamming his shoulders with hers on her way out, followed by half-a-dozen women. They were given mistrust and venomous eyes from the priest on his way in, but Asma cared little about it. She just wanted to spend as less time as possible into the Frank's house.

Roland shook his head. “My apologies for this father.”

“Why should you apologize on behalf of heretics, my son? They don't know any better, that is all.”

He winced at that. By all accounts Ide would also be to his eyes a heretic.

“Now, to those children – Do you have a chapel here by any chance?”

Roland fidgeted. “I am having one built but alas, for now we pray in a building near the stables.”

“Where are the godmother and godfather of the children?”

“Downstairs.” Roland mumbled. “Rosamund is delivering as we speak and her husband Stephen is there to tend to her.”

“Do you have Holy Water, my son?”

Roland's ears rang cold. “I am afraid not.” he croaked.

“Well that is quite vexing I must say. Are you certain that you do not wish to wait?” he gave a wrinkled nose about the room. “That wife of yours may want to be witnessing the event.”

Roland gave a sour laugh. “I don't think she wishes to. My wife tends to prefer work over ceremonies.”

The priest gave her a suspicious look. “Indeed she looks like the kind of women to do things below her station. I hope she will hear reason and behave accordingly.”

“I doubt it.”

“Perhaps would it be best for us to wait for the christening. I'll have someone be sent to Jerusalem for Holy Water, Holy ointments and the tub into which your children will be dipped.”

“Then I better write a letter to the king for him to attend, although I heavily doubt he will. Pray, call upon Richard the red, the count of Tripoli, the prince of Antioche and the lords of Ibelin, Ascalon, Rama and Mirabel. Bid them come with wives and children. Perhaps the queen could be my daughter's godmother. This is a young kingdom after all.” Roland heavily doubted that though. “Pray father, stay here for a while. My house can provide.”

The priest smirked. “I welcome your kind offer my son. But riddle me this, how come your wife was not attended by Christian midwives?”

“Rosamund went into labor first and Ide is not the kind to be selfish. She asked her own women.”

“Ide... That is not common a name.”

“It isn't indeed – but my wife is not common a woman.”

“That reminds me of an affair that reached Rome a year ago.” he mused. “A witch hunt with no results.”

“Really?”

“Why yes, but the Pope dismissed it for the time being. His attention is set upon the North and down here in Holy Land.”

“Why would my wife's name remind you of this?”

“A prior wrote to the pope about his being assaulted by a knight protecting a witch. He wants them tried, excommunicated and banished.”

Roland snickered tautly. “Do you think their claims may appeal to the Pope?”

The priest laughed. “Oh no. That is for their king to decide. His justice is also a king's prerogative.”

Roland sighed. “And knights are so hard to find. Seems like a lost cause to me.”

“Indeed, my son. Indeed.” the priest's smile grew a hard edge. “It is quite vexing for that prior that those he seeks will never be found.”

Roland laughed, all tension released. “I'll remember to thank the Church for my blessings.”

“May He hear you my son.” The priest theatrically rose his hands to the ceiling.

“Fatma, please guide our friend father Theo to his room and have someone bring him wine and fruits.”

Fatma nodded, her eyes hard on the priest.

“You are most obliging.”

Roland smiled and the priest was led away while Ide slept and his children were being fed in a room nearby. Roland knew not what would be said about her now. Would they call her the devil for begetting two children at once, or would they call her God-blessed for this gift of two healthy children? The future was as unclear as ever and Roland was anxious and feeble about his children not being baptized. He would not be at peace so long as they wouldn't be.

His only certainty was Ide. She was alive and sleeping and although she was exhausted, she had been brave enough to fight for those children. Naturally Roland knew what would become of her should one of their children show signs of illness but he resolved to keep his own worry for himself, deeming that she had enough of it for herself.

He watched her on their bed, pale and sweaty, brave and pretty. He softly leaned beside her and kissed the crook of her neck making her whine.

“Thank you.” he whispered. “I love you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! Ide had twins!


	8. 8

It was a fine event. Lords and dukes came as well as the Armenian queen of Jerusalem and a few envoys from the king. Roland's stronghold was thronged with Franks, Jews and Saracens and as much as the Christians all swarmed into the house Roland was ashamed to call a chapel, most of them remained outside with those who were not. Roland took care to place the noblest of men up front and his troops inside the church.

There was both Peters, the tall one and the burly ginger-headed, John and his slit lip, Eudes, a young man Roland had seen bloom into a fierce warrior whose blue eyes could see the farthest any man ever could, Robert – nicknamed golden-hammer for the time he woke up from a nightmare in which he was chased by hammers and wet his bed; a memorable moment his mates had cherished and wished to remind him what seemed like every instant – and Walter the old, a man in his forties with far more wars behind him than it seemed a man could bear – sea battles, carnage, marches into the desert, cold slaughter in the snow, he had done it all.

Needless to say Ide didn't like them very much, thinking them brutes incapable of any understanding towards Saracen women and women in general. The only one she could tolerate was Eudes. He was quite kind and she had noticed his soft eyes on Yasmin.

She was still bitter about Roland's christening her children but she had accepted it as it meant that her children would be legitimate heirs to the eyes of the Church and they would benefit from such protection. It would ward off every curse and they would benefit from Samar's protection as well. Ide would not sacrifice them to an ill fate. She would force life and happiness into them should it come up to this.

It wasn't like this always. On the first day she would feed them and want to protect them but soon enough she found herself empty again and could not move or ignite enough energy to tend her children and it was up to the wet-nurse Roland had called just in case to take care of the matter herself. Ide still loved them but she was tired and no amount of sleep seemed to be enough to quench her exhaustion. The delivery had conjured up everything from her and if she was foolish enough to mused about a glass of wine, she wouldn't move, thinking it too daunting a thing.

She was like this for a few days and slowly recovered just in time for the Christening, though she wanted to abandon her children at night when they hollered for food and sucked on her willpower. She chastised herself for such thoughts, for she still loved her son and daughter, but still, it was hard. No one had ever told her this would be difficult – not even Mary or Rosamund. She could only endure and take comfort in the thought that it was still better than miscarriage.

She still had not told Roland about their first-born she had buried under the oak tree. Fate willing she would be buried with that burden.

Her comfort only grew with Rosamund's delivering her child, a daughter she had named Mathilda. Both women were quite pleased to envision friendship between the two girls while the fathers were already musing upon marriage and alliances.

Ide knew it was useless to look for her friends inside the excuse of a chapel but she still glanced from time to time to the outside, trying to catch a glimpse of Zinat or Yasmin. She felt the inquisitive stares of the priest and stirred nervously at the thought of him being fixed on her. She had already experienced such stares and it did not bode well for her. The less he would be among them, the better, but she suspected Roland would want him here longer than expected.

The priest clicked his tongue disapprovingly at her glances to the Saracens. Let him disapprove all he wanted, Ide would not sacrifice her friendships, not even for Roland. It meant the world to her and she knew it benefited him.

Emma and William received splendid gifts from nobles and queen. It was not as rich and gilded as that a prince would get but it was enough to testify of their status. William received a sword, rings and fine silks and Emma some necklaces and embroidered silks. The queen herself seemed to be fond of the children and as intimidated as she was, Ide tried to be a most agreeable host by letting her play with them and provide all sorts of entertainment.

She found it hard a task to please a queen and prove a good hostess. She had never been prepared for this kind of niceties and had rather been raised to believe the most important people she would ever receive would be mere tenants and land-owners. Now she was hostess to a queen.

She couldn't wait for them to all go back to whence they came. It would be quiet then; it would be normal.

The baptistery was a hasty array of tapestries and copper tub. It was a small thing and Roland reddened at it. Him who wanted to appear rich, he was showing a poor display of it.

Still, his guests were polite enough only to disapprove in whispers and if Roland was ashamed, he concealed it well enough.

It was an overall decent thing. The children were plunged into the water thrice and thrice did the priest recite the Holy words. Ide tried not to die either of boredom or of annoyance and was gratified with time going faster as the mother of the two souls being baptized. Roland tried to appear what he was not and was gratified with Ide's hand brushing his and her eyes occasionally locking with his. It was an overall decent thing but had it been a private event, it would have been astonishing.

Then there was the feast and Ide retired in her room under the pretense of her being tired and needing to tend her children. It was a fine feast overall, even if Roland missed his wife.

The guests did not abuse their stay and a few of the party left to ride back to their homelands and strongholds while the queen decided to remain at the domain a bit more. She had gladly found a godmother suitable enough for Ide's daughter; the wife of a nobleman of Jerusalem. A pious woman who was glad to add another soul under her wings, even though she was wary about the mother. To William she appointed a high nobleman as godfather and Rosamund was named his godmother while Stephen godfathered Emma. The thing had been well set and Roland could only appreciate such honor.

Unfortunately for Ide's yearning for solitude, silence and emptiness, Roland was far too busy devising with the priest about the new chapel and stronghold to give the queen a tour of the estate. Ide was thus forced to lead her across her house and the vineyard. She had insisted Rosamund came thinking that both Christians would get along well and leave her in peace but found out soon enough that the queen found interest in the way the estate was kept and how Ide earned money and how she made her honey, how she tended her hives, how she took care of her lemon trees and how she planned to make wine.

Ide's cat followed and the queen took pleasure in scratching its chin, cooing to he little kittens trotting in their mother's trail. She was soft and Ide found that she enjoyed her company.

Her stay was short nonetheless and after she bought Ide a few jars of honey, and made a donation to Roland for the Chapel in exchange for her patronage and the building of a convent there, she left with the envoys of the king and everything was calm again minus the cries of babies and Roland's newfound blissful family life.

And there they were again, alone in their house atop the valley, and Ide welcomed her Saracen friends again and fed her children when needed with the help of a wet nurse and wove and healed and watched her children grow healthy and strong and Roland kept building his stronghold, training his knights, praying, sending words to the king about his affairs and played with his son and looked at his daughter grow with marvel at his happiness. Life had never been sweeter.

 


	9. 9

She crooned over her children, tickling them with her hair while playing with the kittens with her free hand, Zinat and Yasmin laughing, the hustle and bustle of the estate a foreign sound compared to giggles.

It had been several months now since the christening. Life was back to what it was and if Ide insisted on taking care of her son and daughter on her own, she gladly left them to the care of the nurse when her skills were needed or when she needed to tend her hives. The emptiness had slowly left and Ide discovered a certain taste for motherhood, although she was not so fond of babies. She was happy to be relieved of her curse and if her thoughts often wandered back to the forest, her sight was ahead, to her children, her gifts.

Naturally, she still kept her miscarrying their first child a secret to Roland and thought he would be happier that way. He didn't need to share her pains. Those were hers, as well as the guilt and the shame. She had embraced them and swallowed them and was deterred on not letting it stain her newfound content.

Roland sent words to his mother, sisters and brother about his children and Ide had used the occasion to sent words to Mary and Mahaut as well, entrusting her with her desire to see her or merely for a response.

Her fame as a honey-maker had grown and now many merchants from the caravansary came to buy honey which, along with her renowned healing skills, filled her with pride. Had Samar been still alive, Ide knew she would have been proud too. She was gathering money rapidly and she couldn't wait for her children to be able to walk so that she would make wine.

The foundations of the chapel and the keep were set and thanks to the many gifts from noblemen and queen who visited, Roland was able to start the building per say. He was furthermore gratified with Ide's rallying some of the Saracen to him and if he wouldn't force his religion upon them, he still harbored the hope of them converting on their own.

More Christians came over, most of them pilgrims, others knights. The city grew on the other side of the valley, leaving Saracens alone on the other.

Ide was grateful for that, for her court, if not lacking of Christians, was trailed with Saracen women whom she loved and admired very much, many of whom were those who assisted her in childbirth. Among them, Zinat and Yasmin proved to be precious friends and Ide was designated by them as an intermediate to her husband.

She visited Amal whenever she could with her children. The woman was fond of them and would not stop gushing about them and her great-grandchildren would play with them and Ide would giggle at the sight of girls of three holding in their tiny arms her daughter and son. She found solace in the fact they they would not grow up alone and would have playmates to play with.

Asma would not grow back this brief fondness she had shown when Ide delivered and was as tart as ever, but she softened to the children, and especially Ide's daughter.

Ide had a lot more to learn and she prayed whoever would hear that Amal would stay alive as long as she could. She was not ready to lose anyone else. Not yet.

Life was good. The dark tides afar, Ide savored the softness of her children's voice, the light of an ocher desert, the sun warming her skin, everything that made her life here sweeter. She had never been happier.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Salvation has ended - I must write the epilogue though - but it is not the end. I have way too many IdexRoland domestic fluff ideas to write so I'll write them here. I hoep you'll like this collection of moments!


End file.
